


Witches and Spiders and Goblins

by jeanniebee



Category: Broadway RPF, Marvel, Real Person Fiction, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked RPF
Genre: Broadway, Crossover, Musical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanniebee/pseuds/jeanniebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During personal and professional turmoil, Idina Menzel receives an offer she can’t refuse.  Little does she know accepting it will put her in the middle of a conflict between long time adversaries and threaten her entire world.  There's action, suspense, mortal danger, and Idina even gets to kick some ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Depressing Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this reads as _totally_ ludicrous, even for fanfic. Loving both comic books and Idina (weird combination, yes), when a joke on a podcast suggested the Green Goblin being in love with Idina Menzel, it took root in my head and would not leave until finding expression. That's why it's here, not as a result of a delusion of talent or a demand for this kind of story. 
> 
> This story is largely from Idina's POV because putting Spider-Man and the Green Goblin in the "real" world as supporting characters in someone else's drama and observing them from that perspective seemed more interesting than writing a straight crossover fanfic. The time frame is late summer/early fall 2014, when it was originally written, and Idina was in the midst of _If/Then_ and finalizing her divorce from Taye Diggs. Spider-Man continuity will be discussed at the beginning of Chapter 2.
> 
> Rated Teens and above because of _very_ strong language. Idina has a self-admitted "foul mouth" and raunchy sense of humor. Comic book fans may have problems with the language used by the other primary characters, especially the hero, but I wanted these people to talk as I truly believe they would. The world they live in is _not_ a very nice or pleasant one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly single, Idina Menzel doesn't lack for potential suitors - but she's never had one like this before.

  
_The show had been magnificent tonight, and she was in top form as "Always Starting Over," the powerful eleven o’clock number began rolling. She felt bold and confident, certain the audience would leap to its feet when she unleashed and held the last note. But, rather than the prolonged **"NOOOWWWWW,"** normally following "my new life starts right..." a loud, screeching, unintelligble banshee cry shook the rafters of the Richard Rodgers Theatre. Upon recovering from the shock and catching her breath, she tried again, but not even a gurgle escaped her throat this time. The gentle wave of boos starting from the back of the theater became a virtual tsunami as it rushed to the stage. The lights went up and the crowd rose, hastily filing out, faces expressing disgust and disdain. Torn and discarded Playbills covered the floor. She ran off the stage in pursuit, begging the audience to give her another chance, but they were lemmings focused only on a swift exit. When the doors shut behind the last to leave, she realized she was a solitary presence in the auditorium. No audience, no cast, no musicians, no ushers, no stage crew – no one. Then the lights went out._

  


“Dee?”

Heather Reynolds, one of Idina Menzel’s managers, attempted to regain the actress' attention to continue discussing business matters during the Saturday intermission between shows. Walker was home with the sitter, so it was an opportune time to evaluate interview and personal appearance requests, and review social media strategies. Idina often had a post-show adrenaline surge sufficient to power through the rest of the evening, but it had been a long seven days, with little sleep.

Heather knew something was amiss after the second consecutive question her client failed to answer. Idina was slumped in the couch, eyes closed, her chest gently rising and falling in the cadence of a gentle slumber. Heather reached over from the chair she was sitting in and softly shook her leg. “Dee?” 

“Hmmm?” Idina mumbled, snapping to attention upon realizing what happened. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

“That’s alright, we're almost done. Only one more thing,” Heather replied.

As she was prone to do, Idina went from zero to 60 in seconds, from silence to high-octane anxiety. “It's been such a fucking miserable week. Walker's been really sick, I'm not feeling so good myself, and I fucked up "Always Starting Over" again today, the third time this week,” she muttered disgustedly. “Why aren't I hitting the notes? Maybe I’m finally blowing out my voice like all those assholes have been saying is going to happen. And then what the hell do I do?” 

Idina opening up (or ranting and raving, depending on the listener’s perspective) on her fears and insecurities was SOP for those within her circle. These diatribes could be compared to a brief summer storm taking the edge off a hot and humid day, but it seemed the storms were getting longer and the subsequent cooling much less pronounced. 

“Dee, you’re tired. You’ve been doing eight shows a week for six months in the midst of your busiest year ever. You've only called out what - five times - and all in one stretch when you were sick? Maybe you should decline more interviews and appearance requests. We could also consider having Jackie formally fill in once a week.”

“You know that’s not an option when my name's above the title! Besides, the grosses are softening and we’ve got a ways to go before the show recoups.”

“It’s still surpassing the weekly nut.” 

“But for how long at this rate? Maybe this is the end, maybe it’s all over, and tomorrow I'll be the C-list actress and singer I was before _Frozen_ fever hit. 

“I don’t have _time_ to be tired. I don’t have the _right_ to be tired. Everything happening now is what I've worked my entire professional life for - and it only took _20 fucking years_! I know what it’s like for the phone to stop ringing and it sucks. It’s inevitably going to happen again and I want to get everything I can out of this moment while it lasts! And I don’t want the show closing before my contract is up. Otherwise, good luck getting a show written or backed for me in the future, as well as putting a lot of people out of work without anything else lined up. But, I feel like I’m being a really shitty mother to Walker. I can’t tuck him in at night and read him a bedtime story, yet if I run home right after every show and don’t stage door I’ll appear to be an ungrateful diva bitch who won’t give back to the fans, and I really do love my fans. Well, other than the crazy ones and those assholes trying to get me to sign shit so they can sell it on eBay. And let’s not even talk about the clusterfuck my personal life is. I just don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.” As she finished, her voice began to crack. “Sometimes, I just want to take my son and fall off the face of the earth for awhile." Wiping away the moisture collecting around her eyes, she asked "You said there was something else?” 

“Uh, yes,” Heather responded hesitantly. _This_ item was the primary reason she came to Idina's dressing room today, and on a weekend, under the guise of a social call that also included a few matters of business. She knew it needed to be presented to Idina _in person_ , and as soon as possible.

“Oh, no," Idina's eyes widened and she lost some of the little color left in her face. "I don’t like the tone in your voice. We don’t have another nutcase to request a restraining order on, do we? The one last week was the scariest yet. How many does that make?” Unfortunately, an inevitable consequence of Idina's enhanced celebrity was an increase in "fans" unable to maintain a healthy distinction between admiring her as a performer, and as an object of obsession.

“No, no, no," Heather quickly responded to quell her rising concern. "It’s not that at all. It’s actually, uh, an offer of sorts.”

“ _Of sorts_? This isn’t a Celebrity Survivor-Broadway edition, or some crazy shit like that, is it? Because no matter how much they offer, I am not sleeping in a fucking tent, sweating my ass off with bugs and lizards crawling between my tits.” 

“Well, nothing crazy like _that_.” Heather's emphasis on “that” made it seem no less ominous. 

“O.K. So what kind of crazy shit is it?” 

“A prominent New York City businessman has offered to make a $500,000 donation to A BroaderWay.” Idina’s eyes opened wider than they had been all day, and her jaw dropped. A BroaderWay was the foundation she, her best friend from college, and her ex-husband, Taye Diggs had established to send inner city girls to camp in the Berkshires, providing an outlet for creative expression which they otherwise might not have. A myriad of things a $500,000 injection could provide crossed her mind. 

“ _Five-hundred-thousand-dollars_?" she asked slowly and deliberately, reeling from the magnitude of the offer. "But do I even want to know what the fuck I’m going to have to do to get that money - no pun intended? Unless that's exactly what's intended? But I thought _that_ was illegal in every state except Nevada.” 

“He wants to have dinner with you.” 

“In Nevada?” 

“No, in New York.” 

“It’s not a singing engagement?” 

“No singing. Just dinner.” 

“No extracurricular activities?” 

“No.” 

“Do I have to show up in rubber, a dominatrix outfit, or as Little Bo Peep or something?” 

_“Dee!_ Talk about a one-track mind!" 

“Well, dammit, what am I supposed to think? That it's just for dinner? That’s a damned expensive dinner. What’s in the fine print?” 

“He was quite clear - dinner only.” 

“Hmm. I notice you didn’t tell him his name up front. Is it Donald Trump?” 

“It’s not Donald Trump.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. Oh no – this isn’t Tony Stark again is it? Because I made it clear to _that_ motherfucker if he ever, _**EVER**_...” 

“No, it isn’t Tony Stark.” 

“Am I being punk’d by Ashton Kutcher? Is this a 15-year old internet millionaire? Is it…?” 

“His name is Norman Osborn,” Heather said, ending the increasingly frantic guessing game. Idina could have continued for an hour, each speculation wilder than the one preceding it. 

“Norman Osborn?” Idina muttered. New York City was home to numerous “prominent businessmen," just as it was theater and other creative types, some more famous - or infamous - than others. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?” 

“Chairman, President, and CEO of Oscorp.” 

“OK. I’ve heard of that company, but...wait a minute...something sounds familiar. There was some business guy punched out by Spider-Man and it was caught on a security camera and showed up on TV and the internet. I distinctly remember that because Walker likes Spider-Man, and I was wondering why the hell he liked someone who'd do something that fucking stupid. Was that Osborn? And wasn’t his son one of those - what do they call them - supervillains?” 

“Yes to both questions. I remember the Spider-Man thing as well. Frankly, I think anyone who swings around the city in a Halloween costume, taking the law into his own hands, needs to be arrested or committed. Still, with men like Osborn, as many people who thought Spider-Man attacking him was wrong, probably just as many would say he had it coming and Spider-Man should have finished the job. His son, Harry, dressed up as a character called the Green Goblin, but he died a few years ago. I don’t know Osborn since his business is outside of my usual networks. But, I’ve got a rush out to one of my people to put together as much biographical and other information on him as they can, and do some public records searches. I’m hoping I can get this to you sometime tomorrow. I assumed you’d want to know as much about him as you could before accepting or declining his invitation.” 

“Yeah. Yeah I would. Thanks. But that’s just fucking great. I haven’t had much luck dating and one of my best offers comes from the father of a "supervillain" and a guy who picks fights with Spider-Man. Why me?” Idina dropped her head and sighed loudly. 

_But $500,000._

“Did he say _where_ he wanted to go to dinner?” she asked with a resigned air. 

“He suggested his private club, saying it would offer more privacy and ensure you can meet without your picture showing up in the tabloids. He would send a driver to pick you up at your apartment.” 

Idina sighed again and sat back up. “When do we have to get back with an answer? And what do you think I should do?” 

“There’s no deadline…but probably sooner rather than later. And I really can’t answer as to whether or not you should accept. Like I said, I’ve never met the man. Wait until you have a chance to read the report and then decide.”

  


Usually upon returning home after a show, on the nights he didn't accompany her, Idina would relieve the baby sitter and check in on a sleeping Walker, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. She would then retire herself, since Walker would be up bright-and-early (usually _too_ early) the next morning. However, while dead tired, her mind's frantic gymnastics precluded sleeping immediately, so she decided to put her anxiety to productive use. 

With her laptop, she performed her own internet search on Norman Osborn. Not a bad looking man, she supposed, although the hair was a bit strange. He didn’t have a personal social media footprint, i.e. no Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or personal website. Obviously, his company did, as Oscorp's corporate fingers seemed to be in a lot of pies, including chemical engineering, technology, and biological research, but much of that was "blah blah blah" to her. Then there was his corporate profile – which was – a corporate profile, written with all of the banality a committee of lawyers could spin. While it highlighted Osborn's accomplishments, which admittedly, seemed considerable, it was disappointingly silent about the man himself. 

His Wikipedia page, _caveat emptor_ , was more informative, allowing her to glean certain salient facts, such that he was 55 years old (at least he wasn’t old enough to be her father, that would have felt really creepy) and a long-time widower, never re-married, with one son, Harry, now deceased. Still, not as much information as she had hoped, with the objectivity of some of the information suspect. Unlike other rich people who enjoyed being celebrities (i.e. Trump), Osborn was notably private. He never had a reality TV show, and attended few public functions. Not to mention there was a hazy and frustratingly ill-documented seven year period when he was actually believed _dead_ , a status, according to _Daily Bugle_ publisher J. Jonah Jameson, that occurred at the hands of none other than Spider-Man, whom Jameson had raged against for years. 

_That's some seriously scary shit. What could **that** be about?_

Not surprisingly, his company sponsored several science fairs in public schools, often in conjunction with Empire State University, his alma mater ( _Not Yale or Harvard? I thought all the serious business types went to those schools_ ). He was also a notable arts patron, even once owning a small, independent movie studio. Lately, he supported drug rehabilitation programs in his son’s memory. There were the expected stories about factories with environmental issues, moral and philosophical concerns over biological research, mergers and acquisitions, patent lawsuits etc., which looked boring as hell. Not many stories were flattering, but business moguls were seldom loved in the media - or by their peers. 

Then there was his late son, Harry. Plenty of information was available on Harry, but for unfortunate reasons. The man had been a raging drug addict. At one point, he seemed to recover, married, had a son, and ran Oscorp when his father was overseas, but relapsed badly, and his life fell apart. He had been institutionalized at least twice after escapades as the Green Goblin, both times turned in by - Spider-Man. And on the night he died of an overdose, Spider-Man was also there. 

_There's definitely a pattern here._

Whether Harry committed _all_ of the Goblin's crimes was uncertain. Most crime experts believed there had been more than one Green Goblin over the years, which wasn't unusual since many current supervillains co-opted the names of a deceased or incarcerated predecessor.

The video of Spider-Man attacking Osborn not long after the latter's return from Europe was still on You Tube, but wasn’t helpful. He was sitting on his couch having a drink when Spider-Man broke through a window and starting punching him. The media, particularly Jameson, spun it as proof Spider-Man was out of control, but as Heather said, there was no shortage of quotes or other inferences from those happy to see Osborn get hammered. She wondered if it was only coincidence Harry died shortly after publicly stating he knew Spider-Man’s secret identity. A book was later published claiming Norman himself had been the original Goblin, but it relied on circumstantial evidence and Osborn’s lawyers discredited and crushed it. 

Idina had mixed feelings about Spider-Man and his peers. He was one of the very first of the "superheroes" to appear, and anyone living or working in New York over the last 20 years had likely seen him. Her own experiences were limited to watching him swing through the air on that weird gunky webbing, hanging around Times Square (literally rather than just figuratively), sitting on a sign or rooftop or, as one of his nicknames suggested, crawling along the side of a building. She’d had no personal interaction with him and didn’t want any. If you were up close and personal with Spider-Man, you were either a criminal or being attacked by one. She had a soft spot for the odd and eccentric, since, well, she resembled that remark, but dressing up in a Halloween costume beating people up wasn’t normal. Too many of his kind settled problems with their fists, and that someone with his power seemed accountable to no one was frightening. Whenever she saw him on TV, he came across as arrogant, obnoxious, and immature. And how much havoc could he wreck if he really lost his mind? She wouldn’t go as far as agreeing with everything that cranky old fart Jameson said, but he had a point. 

Still, he was popular with many people she knew in the theater world, some crediting him with saving friends or family from crime or other harm. His complicated relationships with government officials, the police, the media, and even the other super-beings, gave him an anti-establishment vibe, which only endeared him more to those who often felt disenfranchised or at odds with authority themselves. 

Back to Osborn, Idina curiously noted that for a rich, unmarried man, he was seldom seen with a woman – unless it was his daughter-in-law, Elizabeth. “Liz” was an interesting study, achieving considerable notoriety as a female CEO of an international conglomerate, managing Oscorp after Harry's death. But, she was quickly marginalized when Norman returned from Europe and retook control. 

So, was he gay? That would be an interesting coincidence, if true. Idina had long been considered a “gay icon,” and as a staunch GLBT supporter, hated giving any credence to clichés about gay people (i.e. single + middle-aged = gay). But, maybe that really was his secret, and one reason he flew below the public radar. He wasn’t ready to come out, which in the extremely conservative circles he ran in, was understandable. Maybe Spider-Man knew that and was blackmailing him, perhaps a factor in his going underground for seven years. Well, if _that_ was the case, she wouldn’t have to worry him trying to get something extra for his money. 

Still, if she accepted a date with Osborn, what would everyone think? Would they suspect she provided more than stimulating dinner conversation for his contribution? Worse - the man was probably a fucking _**Republican**_! Would her friends think she was a sell-out? The _I'm too old for that all shit to be told that I'm selling out_ line from _If/Then_ immediately came to mind. She and Osborn had to be 180 degrees apart on everything relative to politics and culture, drastically limiting the topics they could amicably discuss. Still - _$500,000_. She had to believe most reasonable people would understand she simply couldn’t turn that down. _We could start thinking about getting our own property instead of leasing. Maybe start offering college scholarships. More outreach to the girls during the time in between the camps._

The FedEx she received the following day with the report Heather commissioned on Osborn wasn’t much help. Again, more about Harry, including copies of his arrest records, than Norman. Several lawsuits had been filed against Norman and his companies, but that was probably normal for these people. And there was nothing of substance on that mysterious seven-year gap. 

After some frantic pacing and stressing, she texted Heather. _Tell Osborn’s people I’ll do it. Get back with me on what my calendar looks like._

"And I hope I don’t live to regret it," she mumbled. 

_Shit! I hate hearing Wicked lines…particularly in my own head._

  


**To be Continued in Chapter 2 - "When I Meet the Wizard."** What happens when Broadway Diva meets Notorious Supervillain? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of Idina's multiple managers, I don't know with whom she conducts this type of business. Of the names that came up in my research, I always choose Heather Reynolds as the "go to" character when I need one because I prefer the maternal approach I can take with her. I seriously doubt any drop in on Idina after a show to discuss business. But this scenario seemed the best organic approach to starting the story, and more interesting than using an e-mail, text, or phone conversation.


	2. When I Meet the Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina braces herself for what could be one of the most "interesting" dates she's ever had. Does her experience match her expectations?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place within a variation of Spider-Man’s _comic book_ continuity, not movie, so Norman Osborn does not look like Willem Dafoe (nothing personal, Willem. For those wanting a prototype - think Kevin Spacey), and the Green Goblin will not look like a Power Ranger. In my variation, Peter Parker is at his current comic book age ( **I** say 30's - screw Marvel's perpetual man-child bullshit), but he and Mary Jane never married. Harry Osborn stayed dead. Spider-Man never joined the Avengers. None of that Civil War crap happened. How much of the Marvel Universe exists in this continuity is vague. While there are allusions to others in the superhero/villain community, don't assume who is out there unless they are specifically referenced.

  


Idina’s dinner with Norman Osborn was scheduled on a Monday night when _If/Then_ was dark and she hadn't booked a load of interviews and other appearances. Soon, she would be busy promoting her upcoming Christmas album, for which she had high hopes. 

She chose to dress much more conservatively than if attending an entertainment related function, meaning no midi dress, no curve hugging ensemble, no bare shoulders, cleavage, stilletos or leather. She settled on a navy blue suit and white shirt, with closed-toe pumps and a compact purse matching the suit. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, the earrings were small and simple, no danglers, and she wore a thin gold necklace. She rationalized meeting a prominent business tycoon and discussing his charitable donation mandated “ _business_ appropriate” dress. After one last look in the mirror, she thought _I look ten years older. No getting laid tonight._

Upon her arrival, the club restaurant's maître d greeted her with a plastic, flawless welcoming smile until her "Idina Menzel for Norman Osborn," cracked his veneer. Although quickly recovering, his brief look of incredulity told her she wasn't Osborn's typical guest. "Anything wrong?" she asked innocently, barely concealing her desire to stir the pot. “No ma'am," he emotionlessly responded, routine and experience reasserting themselves. "This way to Mr. Osborn's table." 

_Well, shit, you're no fun._

She sensed the turning heads and murmuring upon her entrance, picking up stray "Elsa," "Frozen,"and "Let It Go" whispers. Overall, the diversity of the membership present, which included a couple of entertainment celebrities she thought she recognized, surprised her, as she presumed any club someone like Norman Osborn belonged to would consist exclusively of wrinkly old white men drinking hard liquor and smoking cigars. 

Osborn sat alone at his table grimacing over what appeared to be an IPAD, but the grimace disappeared upon seeing her and the maître d approach. He placed his pad on the table and stepped toward her, greeting her with a large smile and proffered hand, clasping hers after she extended it. _Wow...strong grip_. 

“Uh-di-na Men-zel,” Osborn said through his smile, emphasizing each syllable equally. He even pronounced it correctly, unlike many others (including some of her old Long Island acquaintances) who still said "Eye"-dina. “I have _so_ wanted to meet you!” 

"Mr. Osborn," Idina responded with her own obligatory first-time-meeting-a-stranger smile. 

Osborn towered over her, his physique striking her as a quarterback's - solid, but not as large and over-muscled like so many of the behemoths dominating football. He wore what she assumed was the expensive tailored suit typical for a corporate CEO. She didn't recognize the brand, but the material and cut told her it definitely wasn't off the rack. Still, his wardrobe appeared more bold and colorful for a man his age in contrast to his contemporaries, particularly an interesting purple shirt/green tie combination. _Wonder if that tie is for my benefit._ It wouldn't be the first time a date thought he was clever wearing green. 

_But, 55? Really? Damn, he looks well preserved. I need the number of his fitness manager or plastic surgeon. Or both. But not his hair stylist. Eh, two out of three’s not bad – and his hair still isn't as weird looking as Trump’s._

“Norman, please. I have been charmed by your talent and performances for quite some time.” 

_**OH, PUH-LEEEZE!** Where are my boots? This high powered mover and shaker probably barely knows me from Ethel Merman. But then again, what's he going to say? “Your voice sucks but I wanted to get a closer look at those tits you almost flashed at Radio City”? Let’s see what kind of “fan” he is._

“Why thank you, Mr. Osborn. I’m curious – any favorites?” She asked as he motioned to a chair at the table and pulled it out for her. He gave her a moment to place her drink order before answering. 

“Well, I was fortunate enough to see you in _Wicked_ on both sides of the Atlantic. I also saw you in "Chess," with Josh Groban while in London, as I've spent a lot of time in Europe,” he continued as he returned to his seat at the table's opposite side. “Your take on "Nobody's Side," is a favorite of mine, extremely powerful. Back on this side of the pond, I attended one of your Barefoot at the Symphony concerts.” 

_Huh. This guy's serious._ “I’m flattered. Where did you see my Barefoot tour?” 

“Toronto. It was the show filmed for your PBS Special. And _If/Then_ , of course. After seeing that I finally summoned the courage to ask for the pleasure of your company.” 

_You are so full of shit, "Norman."_

“Forgive me, but you _really_ don’t seem like a person who needs to work up the courage to do _anything_ , let alone ask a lady out, Mr. Osborn.” 

“Please, again, call me Norman. Your level of celebrity these days is rather intimidating, Ms. Menzel, as is the passion and devotion you inspire in your multitude of fans. John Travolta was fortunate to survive Oscar night with his toupee still attached. Anyway, I know you are extremely busy with your show and other demands on your time including your responsibilities as a single parent, something to which I can relate. So, thank you for agreeing to see me.” 

“It’s Idina.” _$500,000 will buy being on a first name basis at the very least._ “I won’t lie to you, Mr. – _Norman_. You most **definitely** have a way of getting a girl’s attention.” 

“I presumed that attention would be coveted by a great many people, including those of means and influence. I had to find some way to rise above the herd.” 

“Well, you certainly did, although "founder and CEO of an international conglomerate” is nothing to sneeze at." _Wow. I said all that without taking a breath. I even used the term “international conglomerate” without giving away the fact I don’t have a fucking clue what that means other than “really big.”_

“You accord the term more status than it merits. If a poll was taken across this planet, more people would have heard of “Idina Menzel,” than “Norman Osborn,” or any other “CEO of an international conglomerate,” particularly in the last year.” 

Idina chuckled. “Well, a lot of those would be 5-15 year old girls.” 

“And there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with that. Customer loyalty is most easily gained during the customer's youth, a principle I presume applies in entertainment as well as other businesses. The 5-15 year old girls idolizing you now will be the twenty-somethings taking their significant others and the thirty-somethings taking their own children to see you long after you’ve stopped trending on search engines. Think of your young fans as a 401(k). Speaking of business…excuse me for a moment,” Osborn began working on his IPAD again. 

_**What the - ?!?** That's just fucking great. How nice of you to fit me in your busy schedule tonight._ Idina looked over curiously, “Is there something important you need to take care of?” _With the money this date is costing you, I thought you'd at least want to pay attention to me_ she thought as she took a drink. 

“You could say that. I just ordered my foundation to double its contribution to A BroaderWay to $1 million.” 

Twenty years ago, she might have reacted by spitting out her drink, spraying it across the table as if she were in a bad comedy. But she was older and much more mature these days. 

Older anyway. 

She kept the drink in her mouth, but the effort it took resulted in an awkward noise, and the puffed cheeks and wide-open eyes distorted her face into an almost cartoon character-like parody of itself. Osborn looked at her with a curious expression. At the moment, she didn’t know whether to be profoundly grateful…or dread the dropping of the other shoe. 

“And, _no_ , that wasn’t meant as an inducement to get you to sleep with me.” 

Unfortunately, trying to stifle a laugh immediately after gulping down the drink unleashed a loud coughing fit drawing the other patrons' attention. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” she choked out as her face flushed three different hues of red. _So much for looking professional. Down the shithole in the first five minutes. I think that’s a new record. My luck is certainly holding out._

“Are you alright?” Osborn asked. She nodded while continuing to cough into her fist. 

“No! Yes!" _Shit!_ "No, I mean...Norman, I wasn’t thinking _that_ …,” she said upon recovering, but then dropped her head. _He's not going to buy it. Might as well come clean._ Without looking up, she embarrassingly admitted. “Yeah, yeah I was. I’m sorry.” 

“No apology necessary,” Norman smiled as he placed his pad back down, his expression devoid of offense. “Consider it a token of my esteem that you came tonight. Frankly, I expected either a decline or a last minute cancellation. I...have...some baggage, and I suspected your contemporaries would be appalled by you accepting an invitation from a man such as myself.” 

“We _all_ have baggage, Mr. Osborn.” 

“Norman.” 

“And I make my own decisions on who I associate with, Norman. I’m grateful for your generosity because A BroaderWay is very important to me. I’m surprised you chose it because a man such as yourself must have a large number of organizations vying for your attention and money.” 

Osborn gave her a small, knowing smile. “Interesting. Because after all, why would a wealthy white man choose an organization focusing on the cultural enrichment of inner-city girls of color unless he had another, perhaps more dubious, objective?” 

_Oh shit! Am I that fucking transparent? Well, it’s not like I have to go out with him again, and surely he won't back out of his part of the deal now - will he?_

“Well...yes.” She said hesitantly, taking another drink and looking him in the eye. _Hope I don’t choke on this one._ "As long as we're being completely honest with each other." 

“As you said, it got _your_ attention,” he replied. “And while I am sure Neil Patrick Harris supports worthy causes, I find you a more appealing dinner date. Believe it or not, Idina, I remember all too well my days of having no money and no status, with nothing given to me and having only what I fought for and took for myself. I know what it’s like for contemporaries to have experiences unfairly denied you. And so many of my colleagues are notoriously short sighted, focused only on the next quarter’s earnings.” 

“What do you mean by that?” She asked, trying to draw the line from his donation to the quarterly earnings report. 

“I shall be _very_ honest with you, Idina. I’m neither a wide-eyed optimist, nor a social justice warrior. And I certainly do not see myself as a "White Savior." My ultimate objectives are quite selfish, and include self-preservation. The balance in our society grows more precarious every day. Current political and corporate power mongers, regardless of party affiliation or economic philosophy, derive considerable short-term benefit in eliminating the middle class in favor of a permanent underclass. They either see this growing underclass as a source of cheap labor and cannon fodder in future conflicts, or a means of perpetuating the cycle of dependency and thus political power. In the long run, this burgeoning infrastructure of poor, undereducated, and underemployed people will be unable to purchase Corporate America's products, and will be angry, resentful and easily manipulated by petty tyrants. Then we have guards patrolling gated communities, electrified fences and mobs of protesters hurling rocks and Molotov cocktails. It is not conducive to _order_. 

“It is not charity I am interested in providing, but _investment_. I prefer to assist children because adults are notoriously recalcitrant about changing poor habits and re-prioritizing. And providing money for people _to create_ has greater long-term benefits than providing money directly for the purchase of goods and services. The current trend towards elimination of the arts in school programs is horrifying. Creativity is a key component of critical thinking, and people whose creativity has been nurtured find solutions to problems in all fields. Art and science are not mutually exclusive activities. As Ralph Waldo Emmerson said "Science does not know its debt to imagination." Artistic visions have encouraged scientific discoveries for ages. A cheesy 1960’s television series inspired the cell phone, for example. Your foundation's emphasis on stimulating young people's creativity by encouraging them to devise their own musical projects rather than merely perform existing ones is a marvelous example of the behaviors I wish to encourage.” 

Idina was silent, grasping for something profound to say in response, but all she could muster was “I never expected to hear something like that coming from someone like you.” 

“Someone like me?” 

_Motherfuck!_ She flushed again and began another apology, but Osborn raised his hand and nodded to suggest it was unnecessary. If she didn’t know better, he seemed amused by her verbal miscues. 

“I understand. But, _**I**_ take the long view. Far too many so-called titans of industry are only interested in building a petty little power base that will evaporate once they die or a trust fund their spoiled heirs will suck dry. I intend to create a _legacy_ , one I can pass to my grandson, one that will survive me by generations. 

“But I have prattled on far too long. I _really_ want to hear _you_ talk about your career, achievements and aspirations, particularly where you go once you’ve fulfilled your commitment to your show. Speaking of _If/Then_ , I saw it three weeks ago and loved it. It’s quite a showcase for you.” 

Idina was relieved to move on to a topic of which she felt adequately conversant. She also knew she could discuss it without accidentally verbalizing uninformed judgments about her host. 

“I _really_ love this show. It's original material, about people and the impact of choices they make and it doesn’t need special effects or fancy set pieces to support it. We could do it in a garage if we had to. The people I'm working with are wonderful, and they've been _so_ good to me during this period of time. It's been uncannily serendipitous with the events of my personal life. I just wish we were doing better at the box office.” 

“You're not doing well? That would surprise me.” 

“We’ve been trending down for the last several weeks, and I’m worried we’ll fall below break-even well before my contract is up, and I don’t want the show to close before then because too many people rely on the work. And I’ve had some bad nights.” 

“Well, you were certainly flawless the night I saw you.” 

Idina smiled, and while replying “thank you very much,” really thought _bullshit._ She did not take praise particularly well, so deep-rooted were her fears and insecurities. She differed little from many creative people who entered the business because they craved attention and affection, but what they received was never enough. She couldn’t take the ardent devotion of many of her fans too seriously when they were referring to her as their “goddess,” “queen,” and inexplicably, “mom.” She was sensitive to the reality that they adored and loved her public image - not the emotionally turbulent and neurotic real person whom they might not love so much if they truly knew her. 

“The critics weren’t particularly kind to us, which didn’t help. I understand it not being for everyone, but so many people have been genuinely touched by it. I’ve even seen men in tears. 

“Anyway, I’m releasing a Christmas album, and will provide vocals for a _Frozen_ short. A tour is on the drawing board, but it's a little premature to discuss right now. And the Disney people are talking to my manager about another film, so professionally things are good. But, I really want a TV show. I could go home to my son every night, have weekends off, and bank enough money so I can do only those things I really want to do when I want to do them, maybe indulge a guilty pleasure or two. However, I _don’t_ want a show with my name in the title. I know someone who had one of those and it didn’t go well, so I wouldn’t want to jinx it that way.” 

“If I may be so bold, what would one of those guilty pleasures be?” 

"You'll think it's silly." 

"Try me." 

She smiled sheepishly, gazing down at the table for a moment before looking back up at Osborn. “I'd really like to be a rocker chick for just one tour, before I get too old, coming out on stage in tight leather pants, big hair and belting before obnoxious crowds under influences both legal _and_ illegal. I want to unleash my full personality, talk trash and smut and curse and be frank about life's ups and downs for a woman in her 40's and not have to worry about offending little girls and their mothers expecting to see "Elsa."" 

"Something like the _"Idina Menzel - No One Under 17 Admitted - Tour"_?" 

"Exactly!" she laughed. _Rich, successful, powerful - and a sense of humor?_ "I mean, I never saw myself as a Broadway diva, in evening gowns and high heels, and certainly _never_ as an icon of little girls. When I auditioned for _Rent_ , I was just looking for paying professional work so I wouldn't have to be a wedding singer anymore and pounding out "C'mon Baby Let's do the Conga." But mind you, I'm _NOT_ complaining about how things turned out. It's just..." Unfortunately, her pause lingered enough to prompt Osborn to reflexively move in and complete the thought. 

"It's just you don't feel worthy of the adulation, that one day you'll be unmasked, and they'll see the scared, sensitive little Jewish girl hiding inside the loud and brassy exterior. And not only will they not like her anymore, they'll ask themselves "what did we ever think was so special about her?" 

Idina's face fell. She was prepared to engage in meaningless polite talk with a generous corporate benefactor. Raw emotions were not supposed to be on the menu. The relative speed and ease at which he made his assessment was frightening, as if rather than simply enjoying an evening of casual conversation, Osborn sized her up as if she were a potential business rival or someone with whom he was engaged in tense negotiations. She recovered, and calmly, but sharply, responded. "You missed your calling, Mr. Osborn. Your profile on your company's website said nothing about your degree in psychology." 

""Forgive me," Osborn said as he looked down for a moment. Upon renewing eye contact he continued. "I appear to have overstepped my boundaries." 

"Apology accepted," Idina said in a conciliatory tone after a brief pause. "After all, it's not like I've made any secret of my insecurities. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And businessmen such as yourself _are_ skilled at noticing and exploiting vulnerabilities." 

"That was _not_ my intention," Osborn said, genuinely concerned he had offended her. "My appalling execution notwithstanding, I simply wanted to convey that I...understand...all too well...what it is like to present one face to the world, while feeling...quite different inside." 

_Oh, really? There's a **man** behind the mythology? Let's find out._ "Well then, Norman, did _you_ ever have any creative aspirations?” 

“Excuse me?” Osborn asked, taken aback by the question and the abrupt shift in topic, as she had planned. Idina sensed his first inclination was to deliver a terse, abrupt response, but he stopped himself and was trying to formulate a more diplomatic approach. 

“You heard me. I asked – did _you_ ever want to do anything creative? Someone who supports the arts as generously as yourself must have once longed to do something in that field.” 

He smiled uncomfortably. Although he choose his words and tone carefully, she still detected a hint of condescension. “I wanted to meet you for the purpose of listening to _you_ talk about _your_ career and interests. Our time together is so limited, and it would be wasteful to use any more of it talking about myself. I regret subjecting you to as much of my business philosophy as I already have.” 

Idina leaned back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest and gave Osborn a "look." Although he was very polite, she knew men like him were used to control, and he was now trying to re-assert the control he felt he lost when forced to apologize for his earlier indiscretion. She wasn't letting him get back up off the mat that easily.

“You know what? That’s _not_ how this is going to work. You wanted to talk to me. OK, here's what **I** want to talk about. I want to talk about whether _you_ wanted to do anything creative or artistic. Don’t tell me you were born in a business suit and at five years old dreamed of being a Harvard MBA because I'm calling bull ( _don't say shit! Not here! Not now!_ ) on that. I know you once owned a little movie studio, and I doubt it was because you thought you’d make a lot of money." 

“Harvard did not accept me” he replied bitterly. Still, although he was frowning and pursing his lips, Idina caught a flash of a smile, which suggested he was not displeased with her assertiveness. After all, a man such as Osborn does his research. He knew _who_ was coming to dinner. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” he confessed, so quietly Idina barely heard it. He took a quick drink. 

“Oh really? What did you want to write?” 

A pause. Another drink. A sigh. 

“Science fiction….but the starving artist angle…had no appeal for me.” 

“Uh – huh,” she said knowingly, with a smidgen of "ah ha, I knew it!" embedded in her tone. “Did you want to sing or dance as well?” 

At that point, Osborn looked as if he were insulted. “Not even _I_ would have inflicted _that_ travesty upon humanity." The tone of his voice then softened. "Although...I once knew someone who wanted to do those very things.” 

She didn't catch the last sentence entirely as it was barely above a whisper, but she noticed Osborn’s features sadden. She wasn’t sure if she offended him, angered him, brought a memory to the surface he wasn’t comfortable re-visiting, or all three. But much more was going on inside that brain than he was volunteering, and she felt close to learning something important about him. "So, what happened to the movie studio?” 

“I liquidated it. It was a rich man’s indulgence, akin to owning a sports team. It was going to demand more time and effort than I was willing to commit for it to perform to my expectations.” 

“Have you ever invested in Broadway shows?” 

“A few,” which he enumerated. “I've had some producer's credits. Again, a rich man’s indulgence – although one that didn't require a great deal of _personal_ investment. And those particular expenditures come with tax advantages, premium seats and visits with the stars, which can work wonders when trying to win new clients or continue currying favor with established ones. It's quite remarkable what arranging a client's young daughter a meeting with Aaron Tveit or Jeremy Jordan will accomplish.” 

“Still, no one invests in a Broadway show looking a big payoff, not when more than three quarters of them lose money, a _lot_ of money, sometimes an entire investment. You seem far too smart a businessman to invest in things likely to lose that much money.” 

Osborn smiled, clearly enjoying her pointed inquiries rather than merely tolerating them. “You know, you are _quite_ charming when you use flattery as a tactic in contrast to your - shall we say – more unfiltered – persona?” 

“I just think there’s a more interesting story you’re not telling me, and I’m not giving up unless I hear it.” 

“Oh _really_?" he asked with feigned offense. "And just how do you define “interesting,” Ms. Menzel?” 

“Something that doesn't sound like you wrote it out beforehand and practiced it in front of the mirror, Mr. Osborn.” _Oh shit. He is so going to have my ass thrown out of here. I can see it now Broadway Star Ejected from Fancy Club for Being a Rude, Obnoxious Bitch._

Osborn was silent for a moment, casting an aside glance as he debated the pros and cons of continuing this topic of conversation, knowing there would be no putting the genie back into the bottle if he crossed this threshold with Idina. 

“My… wife, Emily….Harry’s mother…had an absolutely _beautiful_ voice. She loved music, loved theater." He began to chuckle before continuing. "I remember trying to convince her to sing at our wedding, but she refused and we compromised on a recording of her singing _Looking Through the Eyes of Love_.” 

“Well, _yeah_. What woman wants to work at her own wedding? I sure didn't. That’s like going on a fancy date and busing your own table.” 

“I believe _she_ said something similar at the time.” 

Osborn was surprised he was sharing this with someone he literally just met. People who had known him for years were unaware of some of the things he was telling Idina Menzel. In spite of her celebrity and frank personality, he was unusually at ease with her. She possessed a compelling combination of coarseness and vulnerability. And, also surprising, he felt it essential to make amends for his abrupt and premature piercing of the veil surrounding her insecurities. Normally, that did not trouble him as it was an intimidation tactic he used against those he wished to secure an advantage. But this time... 

“You have to see it from my perspective. It was when I first heard her sing that I realized I was in love with her. She was…mesmerizing. I have always been...enamored...of strong women with powerful voices and stage presences, who command your complete attention as they perform.” 

“You must be totally in love with Patti LuPone then.” 

“Patti LuPone frightens me.” 

“ _ **What?!**_ ” she laughed, curious how one of Broadway's most celebrated divas "frightened" a businessman of Norman Osborn's stature. 

“I fear what she would do to me if my cell phone went off in front of her,” his response referencing an infamous showtime moment when LuPone broke character to chastise an audience member about the offending phone. 

“ _Anyway…_ ,” Idina quickly pivoted back to the previous subject to keep Osborn from tangenting just as his story became more interesting. 

“Anyway…Emily dreamed of singing professionally, but she knew, as do we all, that talented dreamers exponentially outnumber the available opportunities. 

“While re-building my family’s company, we had no money. Emily knew how desperately important it was for me to restore our name and reputation, both left in tatters by my father. So, while I worked relentlessly on that objective, Emily took outside employment to pay our living expenses. She worked longer and harder than she should have, more than I would ever have asked her. But, we had little choice. We needed everything she made." After a pause, he resumed "and I _never_ stopped regretting that, to this day. 

“I always promised I would make it up to her. I took her to as many shows as possible, even though we had little money because it made her happy and took her mind off other matters. Among all of the other ridiculous things a poor man promises his love he will do for her when he strikes it rich, such as jewelry and clothes, I told her I would buy a little theater or small supper club off-Broadway. She could be the resident chanteuse, holding court every night, whether anyone came or not. But of course, I would paper the house, or ply large swaths of tourists with free alcohol if need be so she would have a robust and enthusiastic audience. 

“It was a foolish, naïve dream, and the principalities and powers that be took it from us. Five years into our marriage, Emily died a lingering death of complications from Harry's birth. My financial success didn’t occur until afterward- too late to share with one of those it was intended to serve. Some of these indulgences you and I have discussed were merely a way… ” and he paused a moment before resuming. 

“Forgive me. I...am uncertain why I divulged all of that. You certainly didn't accept this invitation thinking you would need a violin. Was my story sufficiently interesting?” 

_Maybe you **needed** to talk about this._ Idina was currently experiencing single parenthood, and after a relatively amicable divorce. Taye very much wanted to be a father to his son - even though his living on the opposite coast made visitation a logistical nightmare. She couldn’t imagine becoming a parent and shortly thereafter watching your partner die. “It wasn’t a foolish and naïve dream, Norman. And I’m sorry. It sounds like Emily was a wonderful woman...and a lucky one, to have been loved so much.” 

Osborn took a deep breath before continuing. “Why don’t we place our dinner order and use the down time to step out onto the patio? It’s a beautiful evening and there's a spectacular view of the city.” 

“I’d love to." 

  


After the valet took them up in the elevator, they walked onto the open patio, which provided a 360 degree view of the city. New York City's vibrant, colorful glow almost made the patio lights redundant. Osborn had not overstated it. All of New York's majestic towers were visible, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Freedom Tower, and the latest, and tallest yet, 432 Park Avenue, an apartment building that upon completion next year would house almost exclusively, international plutocracy, consisting of Russian, Chinese, Latin American, and Arabian billionaires. 

“You’re right – this _is_ a beautiful view. I feel like climbing on the ledge and having a “King of the World” moment." 

"It's a bit cooler than I thought it would be," Osborn noted. "Should I have the valet bring you a coat or other covering?" 

"I'm a native New Yorker, Norman, a Long Island girl. Fall in New York is my favorite combination of season and place. It's perfect." She was relieved he didn't reach for the obvious "I didn't think the cold bothered you anyway," joke. “I lived in California for several years when I was married,” she continued. “I mean, I do like the warm weather and seeing the sun every day. And I’ve been overseas. But - there really is nothing like New York, no other place with its energy, no other city that seems like a living thing all its own. And no other place I really consider home. Does that sound silly?” 

“Not at all. Washington, DC makes for an appropriate capital for the _country_ with its various landmarks and collections,“ Norman replied, sounding as if he were to say something to which he had given considerable thought. “But New York...New York seems better suited to be the capital – of an _**empire**_.” 

She looked at him curiously. 

“An empire of what?” 

“National boundaries are stages far too small upon which to exercise _real_ power, Idina.” 

Before she could press Osborn to elaborate on that interesting statement, a loud voice rang out behind them. 

“Delusions of grandeur again, eh Norman?” As Idina pivoted to face the source, a camera flash blanketed her and Osborn. _What the fuck? That seemed a hell of a lot brighter than a normal flash! Who the fuck is this?_ With her eyes still adjusting she saw nothing more than a shape, but considering the muted, yet quite angry “ _ **YOU,**_ ” she heard from Norman, she couldn’t wait to see who this was.

  
**To be Continued in Chapter 3 - "Unadulterated Loathing." And you don't need any hints as to who this interloper is, do you?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norman's stated youthful ambition of being a writer is lifted, along with dialogue, directly from comic book canon, as is some of the aspects of his relationship with his late wife. I invented the musical theater background for her, however. 
> 
> Idina's reference to a TV show named after its star that didn't do well is a nod (and a little jab) to Kristin Chenoweth's eponymous sitcom pre- _Wicked_ that bombed. And for good reason - it's unwatchable and unworthy of her.


	3. Unadulterated Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina won't forget this evening anytime soon as she meets someone _very_ important for the first time. Just how important? She has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was not originally my intention to include characters from any additional media other than the worlds of Spider-Man and Idina Menzel. I think a lot of fanfic falls too easily into that trap – throwing in characters from different media just because it can be done, whether or not it results in better storytelling. But when struggling with a particular scene in this chapter, I could not resist the two cameos that appear, which I think you’ll understand if you remember the name of the actor who played one of those characters. And believe it or not, it made the scene a lot easier to write.

  


Once her eyes finally re-adjusted, Idina saw the annoying flash's source. Judging by Norman’s initial angry reaction, she expected it to be one of those “supervillains,” which New York City seemed to attract like moths to a flame. Why didn't any of those people terrorize Cleveland? She also thought it could be a Mafioso presenting Norman with an offer he couldn’t refuse, or at the very least an oily, loathsome business competitor. But, it was merely an unkempt, but not unattractive man in his early-mid 30's, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a tattered brown jacket long past its useful life. He couldn't have just walked into a club like this looking like _that_ , and when she first strolled onto the patio she made a 360 degree look around and hadn’t seen him. So where the hell did he come from?

“I can’t wait to hear about the plans for your grand empire, Norman,” he said mockingly. “But tell me, who did you have in mind to be the ruler of this empire, as if I had to ask, and where would the rest of us fit?” 

Idina heard Norman angrily mutter, maybe a name or simple profanity, but it was barely audible and unintelligible. With his face flushed with anger, fists clinching and body tensing, he appeared primed to physically attack this man. _I've been with dates who’ve gotten into fights before – but that was in high school. This may be the first time I actually see somebody **killed** on one._

Osborn then took a breath, exhaled slowly, and relaxed, still angry, but less likely to provoke an altercation. He adopted a casual, conversational tone as he spoke. 

“This is private property, and I seriously doubt _you_ qualify for membership.” He walked over to the ledge, looked down, then around, as if the sides of the building would tell him something. _What's he looking for?_ “Therefore, I must presume you arrived in your own-unique-way,” he finished, the emphasis on the last three words suggesting an underlying message understood only by himself and the photographer. 

“You might say that.” The stranger quickly glanced at Idina as Norman returned to her side. Rather than a leer, which she anticipated, he actually seemed concerned - worried, even. But about what? And for whom? 

“What _are_ you doing here?” Osborn asked once the men resumed staring at each other. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe sometimes _I’d_ like to call the shots in this relationship. You know, to keep it from getting stale and all.” 

_Relationship? Could one of my guesses have been right…?_

“Love that tie, Norman. Green is _definitely_ your color – in more ways than one.” Turning back to Idina, he continued “although I suspect _you’ve_ heard plenty of that in your time.” She rolled her eyes at his cheap and tired joke. “I’ll bet he did it for you, he’s such a stylish rogue. Oh, by the way, my aunt and my ex-fiancee absolutely adore you. Not as much as they love Kristin Chenoweth, of course, but who doesn't just _looove_ Kristin?” 

_Oh, by the way, you're a fucking asshole,_ almost rolled off Idina's tongue, but she caught herself with a millisecond to spare. Knowing neither party in this conflict, she didn't want to risk an inappropriate response, but she still gave the stranger a glare clearly telegraphing her feelings about his intrusion. Paparazzi were an inevitable consequence of celebrity, and they came in all types. Many were dirt-bags and assholes, although some were decent people just trying to do a job. _This_ smug little bastard, however, appeared to be in a class by himself. 

“You're certainly trading up, Norman. Or she’s desperate and trading way down. Maybe she doesn’t see nearly as well as she sings.” 

_That does it!_ Her eyes flashed, her hand came up with a finger extended and she moved to jab him in the chest while uttering something inappropriate for younger audiences, but Norman raised his hand and blocked her. “It’s alright. He’s a friend of the family.” 

_My ass. If that's a friend..._

Norman turned to her, “Idina, I really must apologize, but would you please wait inside at our table while I renew an old acquaintance? Inform the waiter to bring you whatever you need.” 

Norman was unfailingly polite, but she knew it was NOT a request. She still wanted her pound of flesh from the intruder, and felt like she was being “dismissed.” She didn’t like being “dismissed” by ANY man, regardless of his wealth or charm. That said, she was in the middle of something obviously long standing and highly personal between the two men, and it was just as well she discretely exit. 

“I’ll be waiting, Norman. I’m sure it won’t take you long to deal with - _this_ ,” she said, directed more at the photographer than Osborn. 

As she boarded the elevator and the valet pressed the destination floor number, she took one last look at the men before the doors shut. At the moment, they were simply watching her depart. Whatever they had to say to each other – they wanted to say it in complete privacy. 

_And I thought this was going to be a dull, uneventful night with a stuffy old corporate suit._ Then again, if Osborn could provoke Spider-Man into punching him, he probably rubbed a lot of others the wrong way as well. 

Once re-seated at their table, she ordered another drink and put a hold on dinner, her mind wandering to the odd confrontation she had witnessed. The photographer was not a contemporary of Norman’s, and probably not a business rival, unless he was one of those high tech entrepreneurs who invested more money in video games than clothes. There was also that comment about “calling the shots in their relationship.” 

Something else notable was how unintimidated the man was by Osborn. He was shorter and leaner, less impressive physically than Osborn, who looked as if he could have, and certainly wanted to, easily torn him apart. Maybe he had something on Norman. Her mind returned to the question of Osborn’s sexuality – which could explain the younger man’s casual tone and lack of concern Norman might harm him. He might be threatening to go public unless he received a payoff. Or maybe the simplest explanation was he was just batshit crazy. 

Fifteen minutes later, Osborn returned and re-seated himself across from her. While composed, he was still agitated. Her curiosity was peaked, but she was uncertain if she should broach the subject. However, it was now the 800-pound gorilla in the room. Besides, Osborn was paying a lot of money for this date. He might as well get - _Idina._

“So what was that little prick’s problem?” 

Norman looked at her, intrigued by her question's abruptness. _Oh shit, did I just overplay this? Might as well continue my streak of verbal blunders this evening._

“Look, I’m sorry, Norman, but he _really_ pissed me off. And how the _hell_ did he get there? When I first took in the view of the city I looked around the entire patio and never saw him. I can’t believe he could simply slip by security and take the elevator or stairs. And he was such an asshole.” 

Norman smiled, not only _not_ offended, but seemingly pleased she shared his opinion. 

“You certainly need not censor yourself with me, Idina, as you do with your young fans. After all, we have to be honest with ourselves and who we really are, don't we? I’ll talk with the manager to see who on the staff is susceptible to payoffs.” 

_He’s not going to talk to anyone,_ she surmised, based on his casual tone. _A man like Osborn would already have stormed into the security office and blasted them for their incompetence. I suppose that person could have bribed someone to give him access. Paps do it all the time. Still, he and Norman seemed to know each other far too well for him to be a simple pap._

“Wonder where he’s going to sell the photo. He’s obviously the first to get one of us together.” 

“He’s not selling anything. I doubt he even took a picture. That was all an act." 

“Really? How do you know…” 

“ _ **Because I know**_!" Norman stated with a harsh finality leading her to believe no additional explanation was coming. However, after a moment, his tone softened and he continued. 

“I’m sorry. Please - forgive my abruptness. I have known that man for a _very_ long time. His name is Peter Parker and he is a despicable - bug.” The distaste inherent in that last word suggested it was sufficient to explain everything one needed to know about “Peter Parker.” However, regardless of how descriptive Norman felt the term was, it meant nothing to her as she had no context for understanding it. 

“He was my son's so-called “best friend.” When Harry began attending Empire State University, I wanted to lease an apartment for him close to campus. However, the only apartment available meeting my criteria was a double, which was fine because I wasn’t sure I wanted Harry to be alone, left entirely to his own devices. When I asked if he had any friends he could invite to share the apartment, he quickly suggested Parker, who was in his freshman chemistry class. At the time, Parker was a brilliant young student attending ESU on a full science scholarship, as had I several years earlier. In many ways, he reminded me of myself at that age. He lived with his aunt and came highly recommended by everyone as a quality student and person. 

“I enthusiastically agreed, believing Parker would be an effective tutor and positive influence on my son. I even considered employing him at one of my companies. However, it became yet another of Harry’s grievous mistakes. Parker chose to squander his intellectual gifts and waste his time on childish extra-curricular activities, ignoring Harry when I hoped he would be the friend my son desperately needed. He also helped himself to Harry’s girlfriend, and they both discarded him as if he were garbage. That led to Harry making…additional poor life choices.” 

“But what did he want? Why did he act like such a bastard?” 

As he collected his thoughts, one thing became clear to Idina concerning Norman Osborn. Even though she had not known him long, she quickly surmised that when he paused or appeared to be in deep contemplation before speaking, the answer she got was _not_ going to be the complete one. 

“To describe him as a bastard insults those born outside of marriage through no fault of their own. He really is a photojournalist working for that bird-cage liner publication _The Daily Bugle_. Several recent acts of vandalism have been directed at my properties. He’s taken pictures of the damage and wondered whether I had any suspects. I don’t consider them serious, probably carried out by bored students, drug addicts or misguided environmentalists. Anyway, enough unpleasantness. Why don’t you tell me about _your_ son? Surely you have recent pictures.” 

At first, Idina was reluctant. Sensing her discomfort at pridefully discussing her young son with a man who had lost his own, Norman set her at ease. "It's quite alright. I’m sure you’re very proud of him and I doubt anything in this world gives you as much joy as he does. You would hardly be a mother otherwise. In fact, I would be insulted if you _didn't_ share that with me.” She then obliged and pulled out her cell phone, flipping through the pictures. Osborn appeared genuinely interested and amused by the photos and the stories accompanying them, and likewise displayed images of his namesake grandson. Still, she observed a moment when a look of profound sadness appeared on his face, which he then quickly dispelled. 

Dinner was a subdued, but still pleasant, affair. Idina and Norman discussed theater, music, and while she pressed him on his politics, he kept much of that close to the vest. While he obviously had a much more conservative world-view than she – it was still more progressive than she had expected. After finishing desert, Norman said “Speaking of your son, I am sure you would like to get back to him, since you no doubt have to rise early tomorrow and take him to school. Not to mention you have another show. My driver is waiting outside – I’ll take you to him.” 

As they walked out of the club to his waiting car, she profusely thanked him for his donation to A BroaderWay. In her fervent desire to express the appreciation she felt the magnitude of his contribution demanded, her articulateness abandoned her, much to her embarrassment. 

“Trust me, I believe I received the better part of that bargain tonight," was his response. _God, he is so full of it! I guess that comes with being someone who's always entertaining and negotiating with clients and politicians._

_Not that it doesn't sound nice, though._

Osborn gestured to the man standing by to open the rear passenger door for her. “My driver will take you home, but if you need anything along the way or any stop you’d like to make, please tell him. The limo is at your disposal tonight.” He clasped her hands in the same manner in which he had originally greeted her. “I appreciate you spending part of your only day off with me. It was a pleasure to meet you and talk to you, Idina.”

“Mine, too, Norman,” she said with her usual beautiful smile. Then, as if it suddenly dawned upon her that she actually enjoyed (most of) the evening, she reiterated “It was mine too.” 

As she stepped into the car and sat down, Norman nodded to his employee, who walked to the driver’s side. He leaned down for one last question. 

“Idina?” 

“Yes?” 

“Would it be presumptuous on my part to inquire about your future availability?” 

“Are you asking me out on another date, Norman?” 

“I suppose I am.” 

“For a lot less than a million dollars, this time, I presume?” 

“Ah – well, yes. And hopefully with one less uninvited guest.” 

“Your people have my manager’s number,” she smiled. 

Norman shut the door and motioned the driver to leave. As the car pulled away, Idina turned to look out the rear window and saw Osborn watching her leave. She gave him a gentle wave, which he reciprocated. The car turned the corner and he was out of sight. 

_Guess he’s not gay, then._

“Home, Ms. Menzel, or is there someplace you’d like to stop?” 

“No, home is fine. Thank you.” 

She leaned back in the seat, eyes fixed on the roof and sighed. _Well, **that** was certainly an interesting evening. This is definitely **not** going up on Twitter. How will I explain this to my friends? And should I even try?_

  


After his car, and Idina with it, were gone, Osborn continued to gaze in the direction where she was last visible, allowing himself a small smile. _It's been a long time since I have so thoroughly enjoyed the simple pleasure of a woman’s company. Idina obviously lacks my dear Emily’s refinement, but that makes her uniquely endearing._ His cell phone buzzed, with the name of his chief of security displayed. 

“This had better be pretty goddamn important,” Osborn snapped angrily into the phone, biting off each word to ensure the extent of his irritation at the night's mood being disrupted was understood. “Because you came within five fucking minutes of ruining my entire evening.” 

“Sir, I’m sorry, but you stated any further attacks on your facilities were to be brought to your attention _immediately_ , regardless of your location or activity.” The security chief had worked for Osborn long enough to be familiar with his temperament and expectations, and the steady tone of his own voice reflected his certainty he couldn’t err when following Osborn’s instructions to the letter. 

“Yes. Yes, I did. You acted appropriately.” After discussing the location, extent and nature of the damage, Osborn asked “Was another artifact left behind?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, what was it? Was it like the last ones?” 

“Uh - no, sir.” 

“I’m not playing goddamn Twenty Questions here. What was it?” 

“I apologize, sir, but I can’t adequately describe it to you. You have to see it for yourself.” 

“Show it to me then.” Few things could unnerve Norman Osborn, but the picture on his cell phone did. 

_So, **that's** who’s behind this, and what it's about._

“Who else has seen it?” 

“Only me.” 

“Keep it that away. Bring it with you to my office tomorrow morning at 8 am.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And while you are there, I will also want to discuss initiating surveillance on certain…additional locations.” 

  
  
_I am so fucking confused,_ Idina thought as she lay on her couch, staring at the ceiling, fingers laced behind her head, the evening's wardrobe eagerly discarded for comfy sweats and bare feet. She returned home early enough to relieve the baby sitter, read to Walker, and put him to bed herself.

The evening did not unfold per expectations at all. She fully anticipated gritting her teeth during the entire dinner, talking with forced politeness, and constantly looking at the time, desperate for the evening to end and walking out in need of a shower. The last thing she anticipated was her actually liking the man, and agreeing to another date. Well, that, and the mini-drama that occurred on the patio. She couldn’t help but think Benny from _Rent_ probably worked for someone very much like Osborn, but she still found him charming, slyly humorous, well versed in the arts, confident without self-absorption, and surprisingly vulnerable. There was no mistaking his feelings for his late wife, and the pain he still felt at her absence even after nearly 30 years. Still, she couldn't help wonder why, as a widower at such a young age, he never remarried. Surely some nubile young thing would have had no objection being "kept" in exchange for the lifestyle. Then, losing his son under such terrible circumstances. In the wake of Jonathan Larson’s passing when she was in _Rent_ , she saw first-hand the devastation losing a child inflicted on parents, regardless of the child's age. For a parent, that wound never, ever heals. 

It was ironic how life and fate worked. No one makes it to the finish without some kind of pain and struggle. Osborn had money, power, and success, but also paid a high price on the other side of the ledger. 

That said, there was clearly something….else…to Norman Osborn, something he kept a tight grip on while in her company. She wondered how much of his charm was manufactured, deliberate and calculating, rather than genuine. Obviously, she knew people who so intensely disliked each other they couldn’t be in a room together without coming to blows. She’d been there herself, particularly during an intense period in her theatrical career when she wanted to strangle a certain petite blonde. But Norman’s reaction to “Peter Parker” was off the charts. His explanation was reasonable, but her gut told her she didn't have the entire story. 

Although very tired with another full and hectic day awaiting her tomorrow, she knew she would have no peace without some additional answers. _Thank god for the internet. Sometimes_. 

Googling “Peter Parker Photographer” resulted in a surprising amount of information, considering she never heard of him before tonight. He was indeed a photographer for _The Daily Bugle,_ but wasn’t a pap. His forte was crime photos, usually involving none other than Spider-Man, whom she began to suspect was the bane of Osborn's existence. Parker had an innate ability to get shots from venues no one else could, which explained his success sneaking into the club. He was simply an expert at that sort of thing. 

This certainly further illuminated the reason for the bad blood between Parker and Norman. Parker’s photos often glamorized Spider-Man, and she knew from her previous research and the information compiled for her that Spider-Man was singularly responsible for each of Harry Osborn's incarcerations after a Green Goblin episode, even present during Harry's fatal overdose. 

Still, she couldn’t ascertain with any certainty whether Harry Osborn had truly been a criminal, or just a fucked up dude who couldn’t shake his drug habit. Was it losing his mother when he was a small child? Believing Norman dead for all of those years ( _I’ve got to ask him about that_ )? Maybe Harry felt Norman blamed him for his mother’s death. God knows that perception would be tough on a kid, true or not. And no matter how charming and patient a man can come across to people he wants to impress, she had no doubt it would have been very difficult to have Norman Osborn as a father. Driven, ambitious, and successful people often have crushing expectations for their offspring – in this case likely even more difficult with no mother to balance the equation. Osborn wouldn’t be the first self-made man to screw his kid up by holding them to standards impossible to meet. 

Norman said that Parker "stole" Harry’s girlfriend. Could Parker have also betrayed Harry to Spider-Man? Judging from the sheer volume of photographs Parker had taken of Spider-Man over the years, he and the webslinger had to know each other more than as mere casual acquaintances. Could he have discovered that Harry was the Goblin and turned him in to Spider-Man? If true, it made perfect sense Norman would loathe _both_ Peter Parker and Spider-Man to the degree he did. She was relieved that while concerned at the intensity of Osborn's anger toward the two men, at least it was based upon a reasonable foundation. 

After shutting her computer down and turning off the lights before going to bed, an apparent glimpse of something moving outside her living room window panicked her. Running onto the balcony she discovered - nothing. 

_No more researching superheroes and super-villains before bedtime. It's making you paranoid, Dee. After all, as high up as I am, something would have to be able to fly to be outside my window._

  
  
“Gotta warn you, sir, it’s pretty ugly in there,” the young patrolman cautioned the older, plainclothes gentleman on the doorstep of another outwardly innocuous property that in reality served as a drug manufacturing and distribution center. Until now. 

“How long you been on, son?” Detective Lennie Briscoe asked, feigning fatherly interest. 

“Six months, sir.” 

“First time you’ve seen something like this?” he asked, continuing the charade. 

“Yes sir.” 

“And how long do you think I’ve been doing this?” 

“I – uh, really couldn’t say sir,” the officer responded, sensing a shift in Briscoe's demeanor from fatherly to bitingly sarcastic. 

“A hell of a lot longer than you would be a damn good guess, wouldn’t it?” finished the older cop, no longer masking his disdain. 

The young man didn’t answer. 

“Well, you’re overdue then. But _thank you_ for looking out for an old man’s fragile constitution. Ed - ” the older detective motioned to his partner to follow him through the door. 

"Since when did you get so touchy you surly old goat?" Detective Ed Green asked his partner just before uttering _"Holeee shit!"_ once the full magnitude of the bloody carnage became apparent. 

“Since some of these young guys think they’re doing me a favor by warning me about what I might see at a crime scene. I was doing this before that one’s father was shaving and he feels the need to prepare me for the sight of blood.” 

“If you’re going to bite off the head of every cop half your age or less because you think they're disrespecting you, maybe you should turn in your shield and spend the rest of your golden years on the golf course. The kid wasn’t wrong about how nasty this was going to be. The meat wagon better get here fast before the fumes reach the other side of the East River. You don’t think this could be Frank Castle’s work do you?” 

“Not his style. He’s a bullets and bombs maniac, with slit throats and stab wounds tossed in for extra color. This is broken necks, crushed skulls, limbs twisted all to hell, probably a hands-on job by one or more of those goddamn super powered nut cases. You know, Ed, I never thought I'd long for the days when it was just gang bangers, mob hoodlums and corner pushers I had to deal with. At least those guys you knew you could take down with a bullet.” 

“Speaking of bullets, whoever did this must have been wearing some damn good body armor, considering the dispersal of the spent shells. They _tried_ to take him, or them, down.” 

“But what was the point? The money and merchandise is still here.” 

“Turf war? Another vigilante trying to save the taxpayers some money?” 

“My aging, ulcer ridden gut tells me “no” to both," Briscoe muttered as he gingerly walked around the bodies. "This guy...something tells me he came in spoiling for a fight - period, just for jollies. I don’t know, Ed, maybe I really am getting too old for this shit. A reporter friend of mine’s got a serious interest in those costumed loonies, I might give him a head’s up. See if he has any idea who might’ve done this. I just hope this isn’t the beginning of something…”

  


**To be Continued in Chapter 4 - I Hope You're Happy. Idina finds out just what her friends think of the company she's keeping.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Law and Order" fans will, of course, remember that Detective Ed Green was played by Jesse Martin, who was "Collins," in the original Broadway production (and feature film) of _Rent_ , which also featured a certain Diva. And Lennie Briscoe was played by the late, great Jerry Orbach - 'nuff said.


	4. I Hope You're Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disapproval of Idina's friends over her new relationship is nothing compared to the dark clouds now gathering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you’re noticing things picking up as the subplots kick in. And poor Idina’s problems are only going to multiply.

  


_One month later._

The customer placed a stack of bills on top of the desk. The middle-aged woman sitting behind it rifled through the crisp, fresh-from-the-bank currency, counting carefully, more from habit as she had no doubt she was given the correct amount. This bastard was always so precise. To anyone unfamiliar with the nature of the transactions taking place at this venue, it could reasonably be assumed to be the office of a fashion or magazine mogul, since by all appearances it was sufficiently upscale, with the usual expensive accoutrements such as paintings, pictures of the cityscape, and high-end furniture. The man wore a hat and dark glasses, a long coat, and the hair and goatee were likely disguises as well. Didn’t matter. He paid cash. Lots of it. Earlier he made his deposit, and now he was settling up the "incidentals." 

“You made it through the house again tonight,” she stated matter of factly, no longer surprised at this customer's endurance. 

“Is that a problem? I believe I am compensating you accordingly.” 

_Talk like a normal person, asshole._ “Unless this doesn't cover my losses over the next couple of days if some of the girls are unable to work. The absentee rate the day after your last visit was a record.” 

“If you are the business person you present yourself to be, you would reflect such a cost in our negotiations. If not, then you are asking me to subsidize poor management, _or_ you are attempting to secure more than fair market value for your inventory. I would consider either to be an impediment to future transactions between us.” 

_I hate this fucking bastard._

The customer smiled. “Nonetheless, in the interest of continuing to foster a mutually beneficial relationship,” He pulled out an additional clip of money, handing it to her. "And considering that this _was_ very short notice….” 

_But I love his money._ She took hold of the folded bills, but he did not immediately relinquish them. 

“Can I presume that this will buy me – priority – should I be in need of your employees’ services on such short notice again?” 

“You presume correctly.” At that point, he released the money. 

“Thank you. I have a date tonight with a remarkably charming and talented young lady, so I need to be on my best behavior.” 

“Glad I could help,” she responded flatly, not caring about his motives as long as he paid. With that, the stranger turned and walked away. 

_That's one fucking scary sonofabitch. I don't know WHO he is, but I've got a goddamn good idea WHAT he is._

_I genuinely feel sorry for that poor girl_. 

  


“Are you decent, Dee?” 

Idina was in her dressing room after another Sunday matinee, removing her wig and make-up when she heard the voice at her door, easily recognizable as her co-star Anthony Rapp, whom she had known since _Rent_ 's original run. They remained close friends and he was cast in _If/Then_ as an old college acquaintance of her character, Elizabeth. 

“Fuck no, but come in anyway – not that _you’ll_ see anything you like.” Anthony's head slowly peeked from behind the door, fearful her claim of immodesty was literal, since, well, _Idina_. Nothing risqué this time, as she was seated at her make-up table, still wearing Elizabeth's blue blazer and black pants, although she wasted no time discarding her boots and socks. 

“Wasn’t that a great show today?” she cheerfully asked as he entered, still focused on her mirror and cleaning her cheeks, nose and forehead. “Looked like a full house again and an enthusiastic one at that! And my voice hasn’t given out lately! So what’s up? I was about to strip down and shower before some guests start cycling through. Wanna watch?"

“Looks like a fucking FTD store,” Rapp murmured, inventorying the numerous floral arrangements transforming Idina's dressing room into a greenhouse, particularly peonies, her favorite. The majority were doubtlessly from one particular fan. However, that fan was largely responsible for her improved mood these last few weeks, and it troubled him to drench it with some cold reality. 

“I wanted to talk to you, Dee," he began upon sitting. "In case I didn’t have a chance later. I’m, uh, worried about you.” 

She ceased cleaning her face and turned, looking at him quizzically. People usually worried when she was mired in one of her blacker moods, _not_ when she was upbeat. 

" _Okaaaayyy_ ," she began slowly. “What have I done now?” 

“I wish the show was rebounding, but that’s not what’s happening.” 

As her confusion intensified, Anthony looked away, reluctant to continue. 

“Anthony, what’s going on?” she quietly asked, genuine concern creeping into her voice. 

“Yes, ticket sales are up, but due largely to one buyer, who's distributing them to various organizations. That’s great for us, David Stone, and people who typically might not be able to afford it, but….” 

“Norman,” Idina said softly, turning from him. 

“Did you know you two were on TMZ yesterday?” 

“I noticed,” she continued in a marginally audible tone. “But if I hadn't, the girls blowing up my Twitter would have made sure I did.” Half of the tweets were happy for her, particularly considering Osborn's fortune. The other half thought she could do younger and better. 

“He was at the show _again_ today. Looking for him in the audience has become part of my intermission ritual, since he likes to move around. Not to mention it's the topic de jour among the cast, crew, ushers and the people working concessions." 

"I see. And _you're_ the one they elected to talk to me about it, right? Or did you just draw the short straw?" Idina faced him again, her irritation rising. 

"Well - I guess all I should say then is "Congratulations." At least _this_ creepy stalker is filthy rich.” 

“You’re _not_ fucking funny, Anthony. And _not_ that it’s anyone’s fucking business, but he’s coming here after my last guest leaves and we’re going out. _Again_ , not that it’s anyone’s fucking business.” 

_“Idina…”_ Anthony sighed, using her proper name rather than the nickname her friends generally used. “What is this? The fourth time?” 

“What the - ? Are you my father now? “ She jumped out of her chair and approached him. “You're keeping track of how often I go out with a man? You gonna ask if I’ve slept with him, too?" 

"Dee - "

"No - go right ahead! Ask me if I've slept with him! You're just dying to fucking know, aren't you? But the answer is _**NO**_ , as if _THAT_ were any of your fucking business, either!” 

“Dee, please,” he rose to meet her angry glare. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into? Did you do any research on this man?” 

“That’s the first thing I did! Heather even put together a file on him for me. Do you think I’m stupid enough to go out with a man of his notoriety and not do a little homework? Where are you getting all of your insightful information from, the fucking internet?” 

“It’s just – look - for example - you didn’t even go out twice with Tony Stark, who’s probably richer than Osborn, younger, a lot better looking, and seems like a hell of a lot more fun.” 

“Says you. And who says we're supposed to share the same taste in men? Besides, Tony Stark is an overgrown frat boy! Yeah, 20 years ago I’d’ve jumped on that horse and rode it till it dropped and had the fucking time of my life, but I’m too old for that now. I have a child. And I don't want to be anyone's Skank of the Week and shown off as if I were a new sports car! I invested almost 20 years in a relationship with a "player," and I sure as hell am not doing it again! It’s nice to be with someone whose eyes stay on _me_ , who makes _me_ the center of attention, who doesn’t mind people fawning over _me_ more than him when we’re out together, because he’s secure in himself. And he's one of the few men I've been with not bothered by the fact Walker is my priority relationship!" 

“Dee, I can’t believe this is coming from you. Jesus Christ, the man is probably a Republican! You know how those people think! Well, don’t expect me to be here when he comes around, because I don’t want to meet him. And no else does either.” 

“Why? Because he’s a rich businessman? Do you think he goes around kicking little old ladies out of their apartments and drowning kittens in his spare time?” 

“Maybe he does. But, also because he’s _Norman Osborn_. I have a really, _really_ bad feeling about him. He doesn't have a reputation as a particularly nice person. While nothing ever stuck to him, a friend of mine told me that years ago there was talk about his being “connected,” with either mobsters or super-powered nutcases. His son was the fucking Green Goblin for Christ’s sake! Where do you think the kid got all of that gear – the Army/Navy Surplus? And even if that’s a coincidence, all of these guys have skeletons in their closets. Do you know for sure where all of his money comes from? Those types all have blood on their hands one way or the other. They don’t get where they are unless they’ve fucked over a whole lot of people along the way – or buried them.” 

Idina angrily turned away and stormed to the other side of the room. She released a loud, frustrated sigh before turning back around. 

“I really don’t know where this is going. Right now, I don’t know right how strongly I feel about him. I mean, I like him, I enjoy being around him. I feel safe and cared for, and he really makes me feel special. My personality doesn't faze him at all, and no matter how busy he is, or how important someone else making demands on his time is, when I'm with him he acts as if there is nothing more important than _me_. I know that's a long way from a commitment, but, when the time comes for a decision, I'm making it based on my own impressions and judgment, not from taking a poll to see what everyone else thinks. 

“Look, I’m over 40 years old! My parents are getting old. I want to send Walker to the best schools, and maybe even have another baby before it's too late. Besides, one of these days my looks are going to go, I’m going to be fat, my voice is going to give out and my fucking phone is going to stop ringing! And what the fuck will I do then?” 

“You’re being neurotic again, Dee. Your career is on fire! You’re more popular now than ever!” 

“And the more you have, the more you can lose. Remember Jonathan? Remember as we were taking _Rent_ into previews, just as we were about to make his dream come true – he fucking _died?_ Don’t tell me there’s a God when shit like that happens! Your whole life and everything you’ve worked for ripped from you in an instant! Isn’t that what this show we’re doing is about? Grabbing happiness while you can because there are no guarantees, not even of tomorrow? 

“Goddammit, can’t I just have something that will take care of all of my problems and worries and needs and maybe...” The subsequent pause in her rant allowed Anthony to jump back into the conversation. 

“And _maybe_ you’ll even fall in love?” 

Idina turned away, softly crying. “Just fucking go away, Anthony.” Rapp walked around to face her, and wrapped her in his arms. 

“Dee, trust me. I understand everything you’re saying. I really do. You’re loud, vulgar, clumsy, messy, socially awkward and obnoxious, but you’re also one of the best people I know and you DESERVE a lifetime of love and happiness. I just want that love and happiness to _be_ for your lifetime. I know what you recently went through. We all do, and we know how long you put up with it before you finally had enough. We just don’t want to see you do something on the rebound that will turn out to be a tragic mistake. You know more than anyone that sometimes love can come at much too high a cost.” 

Idina rolled her eyes. 

“ _Really?_ **_Really?_** You know how much it pisses me off when people run _Wicked_ lines at me?” 

“Well, yeah, but it just seemed to fit.” 

  


After Idina showered, changed, greeted guests and posed for pictures, Norman was escorted into her dressing room, with the usual bouquet, except _this_ particular arrangement was more unique than others.

“Norman, I’m running out of room for those, you know,” she said as she took them. "But, then again, what girl doesn't - wait a minute!" she exclaimed upon a closer examination. "Are these really - _**blue**_ peonies?" 

"Indeed," Osborn said pridefully. "Not colored or tinted, but genuinely blue."

"Where did you get them? I didn't think they existed!"

"Well, they don't - at least not in nature or at your local florist. But, an advantage of being President, CEO and Chairman of one of the world's most renowned chemical and biological research firms is the ability to employ quite a few people who are able to do quite amazing things." 

" _You grew these_? I didn't think Oscorp was in the business of growing flowers." 

"Well, of course not, but the flower family to which the peony belongs is prolific in providing various compounds used in scientific research, notably medicine. One particular herb has been used frequently in medicines in Asia, and another has shown potential in treating Alzheimer's, so we're working with them anyway. But, producing unique and beautiful flowers for a unique and beautiful woman is a pleasant by-product of such research." 

Idina flushed slightly, uncomfortable with both Norman's intellect, to which she felt increasingly insecure around the more he demonstrated it, and his flattery. He was clearly becoming more enamored of her, something she didn't think she could equally reciprocate at present. Lacking an adroit response, she defaulted to one that was pure Idina. 

"You are so full of shit, Norman," which still came with a smile. _But please, don't stop._

"You are only one of many to say that, but the first from whom I will consider it a compliment." 

She flushed even more, using the moments needed to appropriately place the arrangement to regain some composure, as well as change the topic of conversation.

“So, you were at the show again today?” 

“Of course.” 

“You’ve been coming a lot, haven’t you?” 

“I can afford it.” As this was Osborn's first visit to Idina's dressing room, he used the opportunity to absorb as much information as possible from the various artifacts, information that would further illuminate him about the life and character of the woman making considerable inroads into his heart. He noted the various personal pictures, including more than one of Walker, as well as some of the boy’s own artwork on which professions of love for his mother were charmingly scribbled. There was a collage of photos of her with the celebrities that recently paid a visit, pictures children had drawn of her and the characters she portrayed over the years, handmade gifts, boxes of licorice, and more than a small sampling of Wicked Witch of the West and Elsa dolls. 

"This has all come in during the show's run?" he asked with some incredulity. 

"Oh, yes. I've accumulated some extensive collections over the years, not to mention the green bowling ball."

“You have had _quite_ a remarkable career,” he said admiringly. 

“I’ve been very blessed. I occassionally forget that, with the stress of headlining this show, trying to be a good mother, and everything else going on in my life. Sometimes when I get in my moods, I make myself just sit here in silence and look around, so I can be reminded.” 

“Interesting. I would have thought a star vehicle such as this would be a career highlight?” 

“It is. But when it happens, you realize how much responsibility you’re carrying. Millions of dollars are literally riding on you, people’s livelihoods, their dreams. Whether or not the show stays open until the end of my contract may mean the difference for someone trying to keep a kid in school or making a mortgage payment. I just wish I could have more time off, but that’s not how it works on Broadway when your name is above the title.” 

”Do you feel you’re being commensurately compensated?” 

“I really hate talking about that stuff. Why are you asking?” 

“I have people who could review your contracts and…” 

“ _Norman_ ,” she said firmly. She long ago noted how Norman Osborn would effortlessly move in and try to take control of a situation, perhaps not even consciously. _That’s probably what made him as wealthy as he is – and why I need to stop this right now._ “I have good managers who’ve taken care of me over the years, and who stuck with me during times no one was interested in hiring me. I trust them completely.” 

“Of course. I, uh, didn’t see any of your colleagues. I was hoping to meet some of them, as I thoroughly enjoyed today's performance.” 

“A matinee ends at a good time for everyone to go home and be with family, or actually go out for dinner instead of straight to bed. It's also a way to get an early jump on Monday, our only off-day.” 

“I see,” he responded, not fully accepting her explanation for her fellow actors' absence. “Speaking of family, how is Walker?” 

“I'm glad you asked. I know it's a little late to bring this up, but I'd really like to get home early tonight and relieve the babysitter so I can spend some more time with him. He's been feeling a bit slighted lately. Is that OK?” 

“Absolutely. If you are agreeable, and there is a next time, bring him with you. It would give me an excuse to take my grandson away from that daughter-in-law of mine. We could simply go to a park and they could play together. Norman’s only a couple of years older than Walker. I’m sure they’d have a good time.” 

“That’s a great idea. You, uh, don’t like your daughter-in-law?” 

“Liz had a tendency to enable Harry’s weaknesses.” 

“A co-dependent thing?” 

“You might say that.” 

“O.K.” _I have the answer to my original question anyway._ "Norman?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why are you buying up the show?” 

“What makes you think – “ 

“Norman….I haven’t been on an awards show lately, and after Radio City my boobs have stayed where they belong, yet we’re seeing bigger crowds. Word moves fast in the theater community. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, or that my diva ego has gotten out of hand – but I feel safe in saying I’m no Susan Alexander Kane.” 

“It’s not that. I know you don’t need me buying tickets. It’s just…something I can provide my employees and their families, and others who might not be able to afford the show. Live theater should not be exclusive to the wealthy. I remember all too well not having the money to go as often as I would have liked, particularly since it gave Emily so much joy." 

“That's nice, but …wait,” she paused as the truth dawned upon her. “You’re keeping a promise aren’t you?” Osborn didn't respond, and returned to studying Idina’s memorabilia. 

“Norman,” she approached him, clasped his hands, and looked directly at him. “I appreciate it, and it’s very sweet, but that was a promise you made to someone else, a long time ago. Someone who _earned_ that promise from you, who _deserved_ that promise you made to her. I'm so sorry she didn’t live long enough for you to keep it, but it belongs to _her_. New people…should have new promises made to them.” 

Osborn nodded his head and smiled sadly. 

“I suppose you’re right. But, you did say you were running out of room for the flowers, and it was a way of expressing my admiration for your talents, and providing more people with the opportunity to see you perform live. Perhaps I could..." 

“ _Norman_. I mean this in the gentlest way possible, but please – let my business be _my_ business. Surely you can appreciate that. You know, speaking of Emily, you never told me how you two met.” 

“You never asked.” 

“What? Why do I have to?” Idina asked incredulously. _Why is he so reluctant to share more details of his personal life with me? Are there horrible secrets he's afraid I'll stumble upon if I keep pushing my way in_? "Sometimes it would be nice if you'd just volunteer something about your life and your past and the people you've loved without having to be continually prompted." 

Osborn sighed, knowing he was trapped. “We met as freshmen at Empire State University in the same academic year. We were in a chemistry class together, and I have no idea why she was there, other than to fulfill a general education requirement. She was clearly out of her element, pun somewhat intended. And at that time I was a very, _very_ serious student with, I am ashamed to admit, demonstrably inadequate social graces.” 

“I find _that_ hard to believe,” Idina teased, knowing that as brusque as Norman could be now, he must have been a real piece of work without the last few decades smoothing the edges - presuming they had been smoothed much at all. 

“At one point students were required to pair up in the lab for an assignment. I, of course, intended to work alone. Emily approached me, but, I, uh, let her know that her, uh, assistance was neither necessary or even desired.” 

“Oh _this_ should be good. Just what did you say to her?” 

“It’s really not important.” 

“Come on, Norman. Tell me.” 

Osborn frowned. “You have to remember – this was almost 40 years ago. And although evolving, cultural attitudes were still…different and I, in particular, had grown up with a father who was less than open minded about womens' role in society.” 

“ _What. Did. You. Say. Norman?_ ” She asked, her firm, staccato delivery leaving no doubt she expected Osborn to answer - in full and truthfully. "And I'm warning you my bullshit detector is pretty strong today, so don't fuck with me on this." 

Osborn's frown grew more pronounced and he sighed deeply. After a pause, and just before Idina was about to prompt him again, he answered. “I said, "go back to baking brownies, woman.”" 

Idina threw her head back, unleashing one of her full throated cackling laughs, even ripping off a snort before she returned to speaking. “Oh my god! _**Go back to baking brownies? WOMAN?**_ What century were _you_ from? If you had told me that I would have said fuck you and the horse you rode in on and told you to shove your Bunsen burner up your ass! In fact, I might even have done it for you!” 

“Oh, of _that_ I have absolutely _no_ doubt.” 

“How did _she_ react?” 

He smiled and chuckled slightly. Unlike other instances when Idina pried for information, this time it triggered a memory he appeared pleased to revisit, although tempered with sadness. “In contrast to your rather, shall we say, _confrontational_ personality, Emily was always unflappable. She simply crossed her arms, looked me in the eye, gave me a wry smile, and told me I had no choice. And, she was right. We were required to partner with someone, and no one else expressed an interest in working with me.” 

“Imagine that.” 

“I approached the professor to explain I preferred to work alone. His _voice_ said I had to work with Emily, but his _expression_ told me I was the biggest goddamn fool he had ever met. And at that moment on that particular point, he was absolutely right. 

“At first it was very frustrating working with someone whose knowledge of chemistry was less than rudimentary. She seemed to derive great pleasure in challenging me on even the most elementary concepts and procedures, which considering her obvious lack of a background in the subject, I found totally incomprehensible. But, I assumed her inquiries were because she lacked certain intuitive skills." 

"In other words, you thought she was a typical stupid woman." 

"I didn't say that." 

"You didn't have to. But please, go on, further enlighten me on what a total _ass_ you were in those days." 

Osborn sighed again, as he was in far too deep to make a graceful exit. "Anyway, after time it became apparent she simply enjoyed annoying and flustering me.” 

_Because she liked you, moron._ Idina smiled, greatly amused to see even a man as brilliant as Norman Osborn clueless about so many things, particularly matters of the heart. _That's probably what attracted Emily to you - a powerful intellect in desperate need of humanizing. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell you then. I wonder if she ever did._

“She was in the campus musical that year, in the lead, remarkable for a freshman student, as I understand. She gave me a ticket, characterizing it as her gratitude for helping her pass freshman chemistry, and informed me she would be insulted if I did not attend. Of course, I was a double major in chemical engineering and business, with a biology minor, very driven, and I had no time for the arts or other such frivolities. However, not wishing to offend her nor endure her relentless inquiries as to my attendance, I went.” 

_Bullshit._ “No other reasons I'm sure.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What was the musical?” 

“ _Thoroughly Modern Millie_. When she hit the last notes of “Gimme, Gimme” she blew the roof off the auditorium. The crowd gave her a thunderous ovation. From that moment on, I was completely and irrevocably smitten.” 

“How I met my ex was a little less romantic. I flashed my ass at him every day – sometimes twice a day,” she said, referencing the scene in _Rent_ during _La Vie Boheme_ where Maureen "moons" Benny, played by her now ex-husband Taye Diggs. 

“Must have been some ass.” 

“I’d like to think so. _He_ sure did. Don’t tell me _you_ haven’t paused that moment on the DVD.” 

”Idina!” 

She held onto his chin for a moment. “I’m just teasing, Thurston. You know, even business tycoons need to take some teasing. _Especially_ business tycoons. Come on, let’s get going.” 

Idina grabbed her purse and the pair walked out the door. 

“Norman?” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you a Republican?” 

  
He was leaning against the wall, less than six feet from the door Norman and Idina exited. _Good thing he doesn’t have “Goblin-Sense.” So, old Norman really **does** have a girlfriend,_ he noted with both amusement and contempt while watching the two depart in Osborn’s limo. _Hmm. Can’t say much for his taste, but then again, this is the same man who goes out at night dressed like a giant green brownie. All of my machinations and scheming and then a sixty second blurb on tabloid TV throws it all into the shitter._

_But this - **this** is going to make things a **lot** more fun._

  
**To be Continued in Chapter 5 - "Dreadful Things." Peter Parker starts getting wise, Idina asks more questions, and Norman Osborn gets a harsh reminder of the price the people around him pay.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original model for Emily Osborn was Sutton Foster, hence the use of "Gimme, Gimme," which Sutton can be seen belting on You Tube. When it came time in the sequel to develop Emily a little more, Sutton seemed too bold and brassy for what I had in mind for the character, who I envisioned as no less a strong personality, but one who was more unflappable and subtle in her approach than Sutton seems to be. So I adopted a different model, although kept the song.


	5. Dreadful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina finally confronts Norman Osborn on the troubling questions about his past. Peter Parker becomes aware of just how busy Osborn had been lately. And the arrival of a mutual enemy may result in a Broadway funeral.

The rumpled, middle-aged reporter sitting in the restaurant booth glanced at his watch for the 10th time in the last minute. _I’m used to him being late, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying._ He chose this particular restaurant as it was still locally owned, not yet overrun by tourists, something increasingly rare in New York. _Everything's fucking gentrified. That and the nanny-staters won't let a man have a smoke with his coffee anywhere anymore._

“Ben,” came a quiet voice from behind him. The startled reporter jumped and turned to face its source. 

“Jesus H. Christ, Peter! I told you to stop doing that!” 

Ben Urich and Peter Parker had known each other for years, teaming on several stories together as reporter and photographer for the _Daily Bugle_. Of all the reporters Peter had known, Urich was likely the best, with a knack for figuring out things, like superhero secret identities. Of course, one of the (many) problems with people deducing superhero secret identities is people repeatedly bringing stuff to one’s attention thinking it needs a superhero. 

“Since when is an old newshound like you so easily spooked? Besides, I told _you_ I’m not fond of these little rendezvous. Spider-Man’s not on call, you know.” Peter replied as he walked to the other side of the booth and sat down. 

“I know, Peter, but this isn't about a cat stuck in a tree.” 

Peter grimaced and muttered. 

“Osborn.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Buy me a coffee and lay it on me.”

Several years ago, within the seven-year period Norman Osborn was believed dead, Urich authored a book titled _Legacy of Evil_ , chronicling the history of the Osborn family and its connection with the supervillain (or _villains_ ) known as the Green Goblin. Harry's incarcerations outed Norman as the original Goblin, leading Ben to try to pinpoint when the identity transitioned from father to son. His conclusion, that it occurred upon Harry's enrollment in college, suggested _Harry_ Osborn was the Goblin who threw Gwen Stacy off the Brooklyn Bridge. Spider-Man corrected his assumption, setting into motion questions leading to answers Ben really didn’t want, such as what linked Spider-Man, the Green Goblin, the Osborn family, and Gwen Stacy. Or, more accurately, _**who**_. 

However, Ben’s speculation of Norman’s complicity was just that – speculative. Ironically, during that seven years, Roderick Kingsley, the original Hobgoblin, stumbled onto Norman's hideouts, converting the contents to his own use and destroying what he didn't need, including the facilities themselves. Kingsley's pillaging wiped out all tangible evidence of the elder Osborn's criminal activities, leaving only the ramblings of a drug-addled son whose relationship with his father had always been problematic. When Norman "returned from the dead," complete with money, charm, and more importantly, _very_ expensive and politically connected lawyers, he persuaded the masses he had never been the Goblin. Poor, troubled Harry had been the Goblin for years, himself a victim of the “real” Goblin. The publisher recalled the book and pulped the unsold copies, leaving Urich’s reputation in tatters. However, whereas other papers might have fired Ben, the _Bugle_ did not. J. Jonah Jameson was an egotistical, miserly, cantankerous, moody human being and all-around ass. His fixation on discrediting Spider-Man had damaged his credibility as an objective newspaperman. But, JJJ had dealt enough with Osborn, including the latter's hostile takeover attempt of the _Bugle_ years ago, to know Urich was right. For all his faults, Jameson was an unwavering believer in the free press and its role in counterbalancing the powers that considered themselves unaccountable to the American citizenry and humanity itself. 

“A friend in the department tells me that in the last few weeks, punks, hoods, gangbangers and supervillain wannabees in all five boroughs, as well as the surrounding areas, have been brutally beaten to death. At the same time, ladies of discretion specializing in extra-curricular activities for rich men started having extra walking around money – even if they had trouble walking at all for a few days afterwards.” 

“Jesus, Ben, TMI! What the hell does that have to do with anything, let alone Osborn?” 

“I’m not telling you this to get my rocks off, Peter. Something has gotten into Osborn lately and he’s leaving a hell of a mess.” 

“Again, what makes you think it’s Norman? New York is a psychopath potpourri, super-powered and otherwise. Besides, dead punks are someone else's specialty. This doesn't sound like that guy's style, but he has plenty of imitators thinking they’re doing the Lord’s work by knocking off some bad guys.” 

“A vagrant looking for a spot to warm up thought he saw the Green Goblin leave after one of these bloodlettings.” 

“And I’m sure he saw goblins of other colors as well. Look, Ben, I'd bust Norman's balls for jaywalking if I could, but why would he suddenly go on such a rampage? This isn't his modus operandi. It's beneath him. He’s been a big league player with grandiose ambitions. He uses punks for foot soldiers, not bloodsports. And I seriously doubt he’s turned into a misguided vigilante. Unless you think he’s trying to send someone a message?”

“Don’t think so. If that were the case, I'd think he’d hit bigger targets, or a pattern would emerge. This is just crazy, random shit, almost like it's done for jollies or to blow off some steam. And since all of the victims are society's bottom feeders, no one's sweating too many bullets over it.” 

“That’s not the Norman Osborn I know. He's crazy, but there's usually an objective to his madness. The Green Goblin was created so Osborn could conduct a visible, high profile reign of terror, not skulk in the shadows. If Harry were alive I’d suggest looking at him. But then, Harry wasn’t a violent sadist. If I didn't know better I'd say you're still smarting from his legal team turning your book into so much scrap paper.” 

“Look, I’ve studied these things. Osborn’s pathology is similar to a serial killer's – and serial killers sometimes go dormant, but act when there are stressors in their environment. Has Osborn had any business reverses? Did you recently kick his ass?” 

“Not lately. And my _Wall Street Journal_ subscription ran out ages ago, so what makes you think I’d know anything about his business?” 

“I'm looking for something that might have set him off. We both know several Oscorp facilities have recently been vandalized." 

“Yeah, but he's also got a new girlfriend, so why wouldn't that balance things out? Hell, if I had a new girlfriend I'd be dancing down Broadway in a top hat and tails, not hiding in alleyways picking fights with the city's flotsam and jetsam. You know, I actually dropped in on them once to personally congratulate the old casanova.” 

“Bet he appreciated _that_.” 

“He sure did. I wanted to see if he would tell _me_ anything about those attacks, because some of Norman’s enemies could be mine as well. Coincidentally he just happened to be regaling his lady about his latest plans for world domination. Naturally, he wasn’t interested in sharing anything, but he drops in on me uninvited and I wanted to return the favor.” 

“I don't know much about Idina Menzel, but I would have thought she had enough street smarts and common sense….I just don’t get it. I didn't think people like her cared for CEO types, particularly a nasty piece of work like Osborn. That is one goddamn shame.” 

“I don't blame _her_ , Ben. Frankly, I'm worried about her. She's only seeing the Osborn he lets her see, the one he lets the world see. That's the mask he wears around her. Trust me, I know all about putting on different faces for different people..." Peter's voice tailed off and his eyes opened wider. 

"Ben, you’re a genius.” 

“Would you tell my wife that? She never believes me when _I_ tell her.” 

“I know what this is all about now.”  
  


  


Osborn's limousine picked up Idina and Walker at her apartment and brought them to the park, where he and his grandson awaited. Along the way, Walker considered it a personal challenge to determine the objective and function of every switch within the back of the limo. 

_What is it with men and their hands? When they’re boys they have to pull every string, and punch every button, and then when they get older they can’t keep their hands off...That reminds me. Something else I need to talk about with Norman._

As they stepped out of the limo and approached the Osborns, Idina noted that for the first time Norman was not draped within the confines of a tailored suit. Of course, that was probably one hell of an expensive Polo-style shirt he was wearing. 

_What I wouldn't give to get a look inside that man's closet_. 

“Norman, this is Miss Idina,” the elder Osborn said to his six year old namesake. The family resemblance was unmistakeable, and the boy was outfitted identically to his grandfather. He was appropriately deferential, although somewhat withdrawn. However, six-year-olds will be six-year-olds, especially in the presence of a Disney icon. 

"Grandpa, _this_ is Elsa?" he asked with widened eyes, his voice exhibiting awe and confusion equally. He was likely perceptive enough to know the people whose voices gave life to animated characters didn't have to resemble those characters, but Idina knew the look of a youngster who still expected "Elsa" to be a young blonde Scandinavian girl. He probably wouldn't have blinked twice had her pert co-star Kristen Bell voiced Elsa, but a dark haired woman older than his own mother was clearly harder to grasp. 

"The one and only," Osborn answered, almost pridefully, she noted. This was another reason she was growing fond of Norman, another thing she found difficult to articulate to those who knew her and were skeptical of the relationship. Although a man of no small accomplishment, at times she sensed he was actually awed by _her_. Along with her recent professional successes, he had been a balm for her wounded, fragile ego. "But she only sings _Let it Go_ when it's snowing, so don't ask, OK?" 

“Hey,” Idina smiled, reaching to shake the boy's hand. “How are you, Norman? It’s nice to meet you. This is my son, Walker. Walker, this is Mr. Osborn, and his grandson, Norman.” 

Idina watched carefully as Osborn and Walker shook hands. Being the mother of a small child, particularly a boy, could be a problematic hurdle in a budding relationship. Many men found it difficult, almost intimidating, interacting with another man's child, as if that somehow meant the father was there in the flesh competing with him. Others tended to be resentful of the attention and priority a mother had to give a child at the expense of the relationship. And little boys tended to be very protective of their mothers, suspicious of the new men who entered their lives. She also had concerns, although ashamed to acknowledge them, of how Osborn, who outwardly embodied stereotypical White Corporate America, would react to a bi-racial child who resembled his father more than his mother. 

“So, _you’re_ the famous Walker Nathaniel Diggs,” he said with a large smile, which to her great relief, appeared fully sincere. “I've heard many good things about you. I also hear you're quite the character in school.” 

Walker turned to his mother with a quizzical expression. 

“He means you do a lot of funny things and people like you." Satisfied with this explanation, Walker shrugged his shoulders and continued shaking Osborn's hand. He could not have been less impressed- just another one of mom's dates. "Alright boys, the swings and jungle gyms are over there. Knock yourselves out.” 

As Walker and Norman ran to play, the adults sat down on a nearby bench. Idina's eyes remained focused on her son, who took the lead in suggesting play activities. 

“If you had told me 20 years ago that so much of my life was going to revolve around a child, I would have said you were nuts. I was having _way_ too much fun, and also trying to jump-start my music career. Taye wanted a child for a long time, but I kept putting it off until I reached the age where if it didn't happen then, it never would. But now that I have Walker, I simply can not imagine life without him. And I don't want to.” 

“He’s a handsome young man, and a take charge one as well. I like that.” 

“He gets much of that from his father. Taye is quite the handsome man - so much so he just couldn't help himself when other women noticed as well. But what about you? I certainly wouldn’t picture _you_ , Mr. Fortune 500, as the doting grandfather type.” 

“He’s all I have left of my son," Osborn noted sadly. "And...being a grandparent...feels like a second chance...to fix things. So, do you have plans for another album after your Christmas one?” 

_Change the subject again, why don’t you_? Idina noted, increasingly irritated with Norman's evasiveness. _God forbid you let me see your vulnerability, and your regrets on how you managed your relationship with your son. If this is going to work, you're going to have to let me behind the curtain, Wizard_. 

“I’m planning one," she replied, deciding to defer confronting Osborn and address his immediate question. "I have some songs, but none of my solo albums have sold well. The first one was an out-and-out disaster which maybe three people bought. I’ve been dropped more than once by labels, and unless you’re a household name or the hottest young thing, it’s hard to get them excited. People want to hear me sing from _Frozen_ , _Wicked_ and _Rent_ , but seem to have little interest in my original music.” 

“I think we can break that logjam a little.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I could fund your next project, and get some other wheels turning.” 

“Norman, didn’t we talk about this? About staying out of my business?” She noted he became visibly frustrated, his expression a combination of aggravation and genuinely hurt feelings. 

“Idina…I...I have resources, connections. I truly want to help you…get those things you’ve always wanted.” 

“Oh? And in return for….what?” she asked, not entirely serious, sensing an opening through which she could initiate discussion of other matters. 

“Well, let me recoup my costs, and take a producer’s fee. We’ll donate that fee to the cause of your choice, whether it's A BroaderWay or something else. Fair enough? It’ll be a proper business arrangement. As we say, have your people call my people.” 

She gave him a puzzled look, uncertain if he was only _pretending_ to be obtuse, or if her sly come-on genuinely sailed over his head, neither of which seemed in character. 

“And suppose you don't recoup your costs through sales..." she began, deciding to double down. "Would you look to recoup them another way?” She smiled devilishly and instantly regretted it. 

_Fuck! Did I overplay that? I let my guard down and acted like my normal, raunchy self. What if he wants to take me up on it? I don’t know if I’m comfortable enough with him to take that step yet. But, am I more bothered that so far - he hasn’t even seemed to want to try?_

She studied Norman’s reaction. Very little likely surprised Norman Osborn, but Idina's sudden suggestiveness clearly took him off guard, and he actually seemed nervous. 

“I’m sure we could think of something – equitable,” he carefully replied, as if taking her question at face value rather than replying to the underlying innuendo. 

_This is now **beyond** plain old fucking strange_ , she thought. Osborn was far too worldly to let a little flirtation unnerve him, and regardless of his devotion to his late wife’s memory, she doubted he was the chaste type. If it had been any other man, there would have been something…almost sweet…about it. However, the vibe she felt wasn’t shyness or modesty troubling him. 

_What’s going in that mind of yours, Norman? It’s time I found that out, as well as a **lot** of other things._

“Norman, we really need to talk.” 

“About what?” 

_Oh, god, you don't know_? “Norman – look. Because of my career, more of my life is an open book than I care to think about. I literally have hundreds of thousands of people following my every move on social media and I can't have something as small as a brain fart on stage without it being all over Twitter and Tumblr and people speculating if I'm going senile or having an emotional meltdown. You already knew a lot about me before we met. In fact, I’ll bet the extent of what you _do_ know about me would scare me shitless. You already know I’m an emotional basket case, you’ve listened to me talk about my family, the shows I've been in, my co-stars, my successes, my failures, my marriage, my hopes, my dreams, the shit that keeps me awake at night – but you tell me nothing about _you_ unless I pry it out with a crowbar.” 

“I simply cannot imagine my life being all that compelling compared to yours. You're a beloved international star with a fascinating life and career. I am no celebrity, nor do I seek to be.” 

“OK - forgetting that what you just said is _total fucking bullshit_ , since you've done some pretty amazing things in your life - it’s not a celebrity thing, Norman. It’s a _people_ thing – as in two people just talking to each other, not even about anything particularly important, just talking about themselves, the things they’re proud of, the people they love, the stupid things they’ve done. I know you’ve done it before.” 

“If I _wanted_ you to know…” 

“What was that?” As it was barely above a murmur she couldn't make out the words, but judging by Norman's expression, for the first time, he seemed genuinely angry with her. Were some of the barriers coming down, and soon they'd be leaving the door open while using the bathroom? Or - was something long supressed finally surfacing? 

Osborn grimaced. “What would you like to know?” It was a pleasant enough opening, but extended only grudgingly. 

_Start slowly, Dee, and work your way up_. “Well, tell me about your parents. You’ve said nothing about them since that first night, not even in passing, other than your father wrecked your company. You've never even mentioned your mother. You know all about _my_ parents. Yours didn't just find you on the side of the road when you were a baby, or in a rocketship on a farm, did they?” 

She knew she already struck a nerve as Norman visibly tensed. Would he tell her, knowing this was only the first of many questions, or would he grab his grandson and flee the park? He stared ahead, not facing her, and began speaking. “There are good reasons why I never talk about them. My father was a catastrophic failure in every regard, as a businessman, husband and parent, magnified by the fact he was also a raging alcoholic who took his failures out on my mother and I. Those occasions I tried to step in between them...never went well. He broke my mother’s spirit long before her body gave out from the abuse, both external and self-inflicted. I dreamed of the day I would reach adulthood, look him in the eye and return the favor. But he denied me that pleasure by having the temerity to die prematurely. I have to be content that the only satisfaction available to me is pissing on that bastard’s grave.” 

_And I was a mess when my parents simply divorced. Maybe it is true – if everyone’s problems were gathered in one large pile, you’d take your own back in a heartbeat._

“Norman, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” 

“Why are _you_ sorry? _You_ had nothing to do with it. And you wanted to know.” His tone grew increasingly bitter, and he still wasn’t looking at her. 

Earlier, she might have been content with that for the day, but she had started down this road, and needed answers to the questions troubling her. She owed it to herself, to them both, before their relationship proceeded further. 

“Why did you let people believe you were dead for seven years?” 

“Is this going to be how the whole day goes?” 

“It’s time, don’t you think?” 

As Norman turned to face her, she expected an angry glare, but received only a look of resignation. Although unwilling to admit it, he also knew this day was coming. 

"Are you familiar with the Sherlock Holmes stories “The Final Problem” and “The Adventure of the Empty House?”” 

_I was going to get to them right after I finished Gone with the Wind. Where the fuck is he going with this?_ “Can’t say I have.” 

“Arthur Conan Doyle had tired of writing Holmes and killed him off in a struggle with his arch nemesis, Professor Moriarty, in “The Final Problem.” However, the demand for more Holmes stories became too lucrative to ignore, so Doyle revealed that Holmes had survived. But as Moriarty’s henchmen were also cognizant of that fact, he went into hiding until he could ensure they would no longer be a danger to himself or society at large. I was in an analogous situation. Due to the enemies I had made, to protect myself and my son it became necessary to take myself off the chess board, so to speak until I could properly deal with them. Not even Harry knew I was alive, and unfortunately, I did not complete my objectives in time to save him.” 

She was curious about the "enemies" he referenced, but didn't want to tangent down a complicated path when other questions needed answers. "Why did that reporter write a book about you being the Green Goblin, and why did he think that?” 

“It's a much more sensational story and sells more books if a business magnate turns out to be a costumed supervillain as opposed to a young drug addict or petty criminal. As Urich believed I was dead, he was confident he could libel me without fear of retribution. Obviously, there was no support for his preposterous claims and the publisher withdrew the book. Surely you of all people must be aware that segments of the media craft elaborate fictions for their own purposes.” 

“But why did _Harry_ become the Goblin? Were there others?” 

“I don’t know _who_ the _original_ Goblin was, but as I said, whoever he was, he had to be little more than a petty criminal. For whatever reason, Harry felt drawn to him due to his own feelings of powerlessness and inadequacy and decided to mimic him. My son was unable to successfully navigate the myriad stresses and burdens of managing my corporate empire, and Spider-Man used his weaknesses to provoke him and push him over the edge. I think the real Goblin saw Harry’s taking on the role as a means of diverting attention from himself and allowing him a perfect withdrawal.” 

“You keep talking about Spider-Man as if _he's_ one of your enemies. Why? What does Spider-Man have against you and your family?” 

“I know too much about him. That frightens him.” 

“Do you know who he is?” 

“Oh, I know exactly **who** he is and what manner of scum he is." Osborn's deliverly changed from a level tone to one seething with anger upon the mention of Spider-Man. Idina was startled at the revelation and the vocal shift. How would Norman Osborn know Spider-Man's secret identity? Just how deep did this thing go? Was Anthony right about Norman being involved in the strange and dangerous world of costumed super people? "Regardless of anything else you may have heard, the bug is no hero. That troglodyte Jameson is more right than he knows.” 

"How do _you_ know who he is?" 

" _That_ , my dearest Idina, is something I really must insist on keeping to myself. Trust me, you're truly better off not knowing." 

Idina leaned forward, putting her face in her hands. _What kind of world have I gotten myself into? Obsessive fans, casting couches, duplicitous agents and producers, shady investors, tabloids, cheating husbands…that’s nothing compared to **this**. And how much hasn’t he told me?_

“Now, you know why I have been reluctant to confide in you. This _isn’t_ a nice world, Idina. You have no idea the things men such as myself must do to preserve what order there is. I also don't want to burden you with troubling knowledge about things for which you have no ability to impact.” 

She quickly withdrew her face from her hands and looked at Norman again. "I can't tell if you're being protective or patronizing with that comment," she said sharply. Seeing Idina become irritated with him broke his increasingly condescending tone, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, he spoke again. 

“I'm sorry. I do not mean to patronize you. Is there anything else?” 

_Oh lord, where do I start? Well, what the fuck - let's go for it._ “Yes! Why haven't you tried to jump my bones yet?” 

_That_ got the desired reaction. Norman turned around, startled. _**“What?!”**_

“Norman, you might have noticed, but I'm older than 18. I don't need my parents' permission to stay out late nor do I want you to take me to the prom first. Look, I’m not going to lie to you. I don’t know if I’m ready for a commitment. I've still got a lot of shit in my head to work out from my marriage melting down. But, going to bed alone every single night and waking up every morning with no one to talk to except a small child gets really fucking old. Hell, I'm not even talking about sex as much as just adult _company_. I miss falling asleep watching TV like a couple of old people, arguing about who's the biggest bed or blanket hog, or about leaving the toilet seat up, or what temperature the thermostat is set on. I miss sitting down to eat breakfast in the morning looking like shit and having bad breath but not caring because I know the other person doesn't care because he's just happy to be with me. I can’t believe you don’t feel the same way. And let's get real here. I _know_ you’re physically attracted to me. So don’t even try to bullshit me on that one. At least do my ego some good and make me lie about having a headache.” 

By now Osborn was as uncomfortable as she had ever seen him. He nervously rubbed his forehead and - was he actually _sweating?_ On a fall day simply sitting on a park bench? 

“Idina…make no mistake... I-I am quite fond of you," he began, speaking haltingly. "My last attempt at a relationship…I-I might have pursued it more aggressively than I should have. I really... _ **really**_...do not want to lose you.” 

“Norman, we’re not in high school. We're both too old and have been around the block way too many times for this. You know damn well I’ll be bluntly honest with you, and I'm not going to lead you on. Is there something you’re simply too embarrassed to discuss? Please... _talk to me_ , Norman!" 

"I have..." Osborn took a deep breath, placing his right ahead over his chest, "...scars." 

“From open heart surgery?” 

“Something like that. It is...quite unbecoming.” 

“Norman - you're 55 years old. Shit like that happens. But, if it bothers you that much, couldn’t you just get plastic surgery?” 

“It’s not that…simple. Besides, it’s…a motivator.” 

“OK – _this_ is what I’m talking about - all of your cryptic bullshit. I can't figure out how I feel about you because you’re clearly hiding things from me. _Important_ things. And that scares the fuck out of me. What are you afraid of?” 

“I’m not afraid of _anything_ ," he responded, clearly offended. "I have answered _every_ question you have asked, except how I know Spider-Man's identity.” 

“That’s just it! I have to ask! Come on, Norman! Talk to me! Tell me things! I can’t believe you just sit in your tower and count your money all day. What do you want to do with your company? Your life? What do you hope to discover? What did you have for lunch today? Do you want to rule the fucking world? The first time we met you talked about a legacy and an empire. What did you mean? Sometimes I just want to hear you say something totally off the wall and spontaneous, and not worry about looking and sounding foolish or silly. You don’t always have to be "NORMAN GODDAMN TITAN OF INDUSTRY OSBORN" and in control of every fucking situation.” 

“Excuse me.” The pair was interrupted by a teenage boy on a bicycle pulling up behind the bench. 

“ _What do you want?_ ” Norman asked abruptly, with a barely concealed anger. 

“S-sorry," the boy responded nervously. Idina gave Norman a "was that really necessary?" look and addressed the boy. "It's all right, what is it?" 

"That man over there asked me to give this to you.” He handed Idina a folded piece of paper, pointed to an unidentifiable man in the distance, and resumed his ride. 

Idina opened the note and went pale, gasping, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh my god. It’s him.” 

“Who?” 

“The man we had a restraining order placed on last month. He’s stalked me since the news broke that Taye and I had separated. ” 

Osborn quickly stood and began walking toward the man. “ _I’ll_ take care of this,” he said, with an unmistakeable certainty. 

Idina jumped up and grabbed Norman’s arm, bringing him to a halt. “Norman, no! Don’t go near him! You don’t know what he’ll do.” 

“Idina, I am perfectly capable of handling a small matter such as this – quickly and effectively," he replied as he turned to her. "Direct confrontation accomplishes more than legal niceties constructed by weak men who fear the messy consequences of action. And I assure you…he is totally incapable of harming me. On the other hand, when I’m done with him he will be _quite_ incapable of harming you – or doing much of anything else.” 

“What if he’s got a gun or a knife?” 

Osborn chuckled, much to Idina's astonishment. 

“As if I could _possibly_ be intimated by either of those.” 

“No – let the police handle it. He’s violating the restraining order. I’ll call them now,” she said, pulling her phone out of her purse. 

“Idina, that this contemptible...filth...is even capable of walking around under his own power and fouling our air is testimony to law enforcement’s impotence. I won't let you become another Theresa Saldana or Rebecca Schaeffer.” 

“Please, Norman! It's not just for me - but for the boys as well. _Stay here_ and let me call the police!” 

She noticed Osborn was irritated, not only with her plea, but the non-negotiability of its tone. From his look and the tone of his voice, he seemed to want, no - _crave_ , a confrontation with the stalker. However, after a moment's pause, his expression softened, reflecting his reassessment of the situation. 

“You are absolutely right, Idina. As we are without the presence of my private security, it would be foolish and irresponsible to leave you and the boys unattended for even a second. Thank you for being so bold in reminding me.” 

_You're - welcome?_ She thought, uncertain how to interpret _that_ as well. If the stalker's presence had not rattled her, she might have realized she was now among a rare, almost nonexistent group of people who could say "no" to Norman Osborn without consequences. She didn't have time to ponder it as she turned around and called the police. Osborn stood his ground and glared at the man, raising his arm and pointing. Unnerved, the stalker quickly ran away. 

“They’re on their way – he’s gone?” she asked, looking around. 

“Yes. Perhaps as he saw you were not alone he decided a cowardly retreat was in his best interest.” 

Upon arrival, two officers took Idina’s statement and the note given to her. However, it was non-threatening (only lovesick ramblings) and a first offense. As a result, this violation was only a misdemeanor, with the penalty either community service or a fine. However, she could still file a complaint. 

“ _That is totally unacceptable_ ,” an angry Osborn pointedly told the officers, reminding them of who he and Idina were. Only her increasing distress precluded Osborn from further escalating the situation. “I am certain their pathetic efforts will be ineffective,” he stated after the police departed. 

“It’s probably time to leave anyway. I have a show tonight, and...I need some time to settle down.” 

“Is there something I can do to help? I can assign one of my private security to you full-time. Trust me, I will not allow _anything_ to happen to you or your son.” 

“No, that won’t be necessary. I just want to get home right now.” 

“Of course, let me contact my driver and tell him to come around immediately. Idina – are you - I would still like to see you again sometime soon.” 

She hesitated but nodded. “Yes, that's fine. But...Norman, we still have a lot to talk about before this goes any further. A _**lot**_.” 

“I understand,” he quietly responded. 

  


  
“Are you o.k., Momma?” Walker asked, noticing his mother wiping her eyes as they sat in the back of the limousine returning to their apartment. 

“I’m fine, Sweetie. Mommy just has a lot of things on her mind. Did you have a good time with Normie?” 

“Yeah. But Normie’s _strange_.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

“He says he hates Spider-Man and that Spider-Man killed his dad. Momma, Spider-Man doesn't kill people, does he?” 

  


  
The instant the limousine carrying Idina and Walker was out of sight, Osborn contacted his security chief. 

“I need all judicial and law enforcement records from the last 24 months regarding Idina Menzel, particularly restraining orders or any other documentation of harassment, downloaded to my PAD. **_NOW_**. I also want two men assigned to Ms. Menzel at all times - but without her knowledge. Am I clear?” _Not only for this matter, but in the event the perpetrator of the attacks on my facilities casts a wider net._

Once he received assurances his demands would be implemented, he placed his arm around his grandson’s shoulder. “Norman, how about Grandpa finds us some ice cream? And then I’ve got places to go...and people to see.” 

  
  


He'd been careful not to violate the restraining order (she’d realize soon enough it was a mistake and have it removed), but when he saw her with that – _person_ \- today in the park, he knew she needed to be reminded who she belonged to, so he sent the note. At first he thought the person was going to come after him, but Idina stopped him. Still, _he shouldn’t have pointed at me. I’m the one supposed to be with her, not him. Whoever that was is going to be sorry._

He opened the door to his bedroom, a virtual shrine to her, with a multitude of pictures covering the walls. However, before turning on the light, a gloved hand forcefully adhered to his face, covering his mouth and nose. 

“Trick or treat,” a voice said. “Quite a collection you have here. You know, I’m a big fan myself. I might help myself to a few of these. And I didn't think _anybody_ had a copy of "Water." Trust me, you won't be needing them in another sixty seconds.” 

He was alive that long only because his assailant wanted him to wet himself before his skull was crushed. 

“One down.” 

  


  
A week had passed since her conversation with Norman in the park, and she still felt uneasy. _This is it_ , she thought upon receiving notification Osborn’s driver had arrived at her apartment building. She looked again in the mirror before heading downstairs. 

_God, I hope I'm not overdoing it tonight,_ she thought, noting she had upped the ante in her outfit choice. She wore the same black midi-length dress with the leather chest, short sleeves with cut-outs, and stilettos as when she appeared on Letterman not long ago, even using the same blue polish on her nails. Norman mentioned that had been one of his favorite looks on her. _It's time to roll the dice in more ways than one, to finally clear the deck of all questions and concerns._

Norman was obviously quite enamored of her. And although they were very different people, she did like him for the many reasons she mulled over _ad infinitum_ , such as his confidence, sense of humor, generosity, protectiveness, obvious devotion to her and acceptance of her son. While it concerned her he seemed disappointed she wouldn’t let him confront her stalker, that he was willing, even fearless, in the face of that threat, was of tremendous comfort. Still, the mysteries shrouding him troubled her. What all was he involved with? What did he mean about men such as himself “keeping order”? What "enemies" could he have, and could they target her and Walker? What about his feud with Spider-Man? Would Spider-Man's shadow loom over them? And more mundane, but no less important, Norman Osborn the man was a very controlling person. And he could get so…..angry. Thus far, she had yet to provoke _that_ Norman Osborn...but the laws of human nature and her own personality made that inevitable. 

Once in the limousine, she leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes and sighed. It was just as well Taye had Walker for the next two weeks. 

Norman's relationship with his son had been broken, but how much was _his_ fault? Harry might have been a drug addict regardless of his relationship with his father. Norman doted on his grandson and clearly thought the world of him. He could be extremely generous to people he cared about, but conversely, his disdain for and lack of patience with those he _didn't_ was just as intense. She had to admit he appeared to offer a considerable amount of physical, emotional, and yes, financial security, qualities she had seldom seen any _one_ man collectively offer. Although this had been her most successful year ever professionally - it only made her more insecure, more fearful of the day the world would realize she was a talentless loser, and she'd be back to singing Top 40 at weddings. She remembered Norman talking about his wife's dreams, and how he would have indulged them, even if he were the only one to appreciate them. Would he do the same for her, if it all came crashing down? She wanted to believe he would. 

_But that's what this is all about for me? Security? For all my talk about empowerment and not needing men, I'm thinking of committing to something because it'll give me that safety net I've always wanted in case my career falters? Because I won't have to worry about keeping A BroaderWay in the black? What the fuck kind of role model is **that** for girls? Has all of this personal turmoil and loneliness made me that short-sighted? What about love? Sorry, Ann and Nancy._

_I am such a fucking fraud._

“Are you alright, Ms. Menzel?” the driver asked. “There’s a lot of deep sighs coming from back there.” 

Idina opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, is it that obvious? I just have a lot of things on my mind.” 

“I understand. May I ask you a question, Ms. Menzel?” 

Interesting. Norman’s drivers never initiated conversations with her other than inquire where she wanted to go and what she needed. She always had to engage _them_ if she wanted to talk about anything else. After considerable effort, she finally learned this reflected Osborn's explicit orders, and requesting an autograph or selfie was grounds for immediate dismissal. She appreciated his effort to give her a respite from fan requests, but this seemed _too_ controlling, yet typically Norman. 

“Sure.” 

“What the fuck do you see in Norman Osborn?” 

“Excuse me?” Idina quickly sat up and leaned forward. She didn't expect _that_ , and whatever hairs weren't plastered down with hairspray or waxed began to stand. "Is that how you talk about your employer with someone who knows him? Isn’t that out of line?” 

“Well, I’m new at this job. I wasn’t always a limousine driver.” 

“Oh, what were you before?” Not that she cared, but she suddenly felt very tired and groggy. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her ability to process information became seriously compromised. 

The driver turned around with a smile. He was a middle-aged man, with white hair and a moustache, a little older than Norman’s other drivers. 

“A college professor. A biology professor, to be exact.” 

And then Idina blacked out. 

  
  
_She’s late and not answering her cell. And of all the times for the camera to malfunction._

“I have no audio or visual on camera I-1.” Norman said to his security chief over the phone while at his office in Oscorp Tower. “How much fucking money did I pay for this system and am paying you people to maintain it? And why isn't either man covering Idina responding?” 

“Sir, the problem isn’t on our end. It’s been disabled at the source and we can’t fix it remotely. I've already sent someone out there.” 

Osborn's blood ran cold. 

_No._

**NO!**

“I want _you_ to go there. Personally. _This very goddamn minute!_ ” 

Norman hurled his cell phone across the room, shattering it upon impact against the far wall. His rage not quelled, he swept his arm across his desk sending all contents flying, and then flipped it over. Still seething, he proceeded to hurl both a couch and a small table at the bullet-proof windows in his office, both which shattered upon impact. He pulled a large screen video monitor from the wall and threw it to the ground, reducing it to pieces as well. Finally sensing the futility of his super powered temper tantrum, he dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. 

_I did what you wanted. This wasn't supposed to happen!_

  
  
**To be Continued in Chapter 6 - "The Greatest Team There's Ever Been." There is only one man on the face of the earth whom Norman Osborn can rely on to help him save Idina – but will he be willing?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norman wasn't lying about his scars. They're the result of taking a Goblin glider in the chest after the death of Gwen Stacy in the classic _Amazing Spider-Man #121-122_. The original Sam Raimi movie appropriated that directly from the source material - minus the later resurrection, of course.


	6. The Greatest Team There's Ever Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman Osborn reaches out to his greatest enemy to help him rescue Idina from the clutches of a mutual foe. But how will they save her if they kill each other first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will likely be those who object to the language used by both Peter and Norman in this chapter ( _particularly_ Peter), but really...I don't see how two grown men, worn down by years of battle and still possessed of such continued and furious loathing for each other (considering what each believe the other to have taken from him) could keep from talking to each other this way. And like i said, I don't consider Peter to be a boy or a man-child like Marvel wants him to be and he's going to talk to Norman a lot differently than he would ever talk to Aunt May or Mary Jane.

  


  
Osborn pensively stood, staring at the nighttime settling over the city from a window in his office in Oscorp Tower. The surveillance cameras were functional now, but too late. The existing tapes and feeds failed to show any evidence of Idina's kidnapping. Her abductor was quite thorough.

_I confirmed the boy is safe with his father in L.A., and her sister and parents were also undisturbed. Everything was under control. I took precautions, used all available outlets to ensure that **he** didn't interfere with my attempts to build a life outside the madness…but it’s happening again._

A painful memory resurfaced. Years ago, after the disastrous "Gathering of Five" ceremony, the demons took control, requiring seclusion, medication, and constant care until his rational mind reasserted itself. Kolina Frederickson was the private nurse tending to him, and Osborn fell desperately in love. She reciprocated his affections, and he dared hope that for the first time since Emily's passing he could sustain a normal relationship with a woman. But then she saw - _**him.**_

The dividing line between Norman Osborn and the Green Goblin was often indeterminable, shifting back and forth over the years. Briefly, they were distinct personalities unaware of the other’s existence, the result of a severe electrical shock Osborn sustained during an early confrontation with Spider-Man, creating temporary amnesia. Often, the Goblin was simply a garish costume Norman wore to preserve his anonymity when he wanted to interact with the criminal underworld, or commit petty crimes himself, satisfying his compulsion to operate outside of society’s conventions and disregard rules he considered beneath him. At other times, the Goblin literally was the manifestation of Norman’s darker side, his monster of the id, the evil, antisocial part of his personality that engaged in acts of extreme cruelty and sadism. By compartmentalizing that aspect of himself, he could function in public as a corporate CEO and philanthropist, yet also express his hate and anger toward a world that often denied him his wants. Although fully aware of his dual identity, treating the Green Goblin as a distinct personality he could reason and bargain with helped control the psychotic outbursts and other manifestations of his insanity - sometimes. His control slipped with Kolina, who upon seeing what Norman Osborn really was, ended the relationship. 

This time, he doubled down on negotiations with the Goblin. If the Goblin stayed hidden from Idina, Osborn would “allow” him free reign during other times to indulge his violent and sadistic tendencies and desires. It worked…temporarily. But the Goblin was never fully satisfied, wanting not just _his_ portion of Norman’s life – but _all of it._ And now an old foe's re-emergence forced Norman to confront the bitter reality that any true separation of his two identities was an illusion. He would _never_ have many of the things, or people, he wanted. 

His administrative assistant's voice over the intercom interrupted his miserable reflections, but only after the second prompt. 

“Sir – you have a visitor. He refuses to tell me his name, but insists you are expecting him.” 

_He's here._ Osborn turned to his desk and tapped a console, collapsing several large surveillance panels, and rotating others with innocuous décor, leaving only a relatively small one near his desk. He had no intention of revealing to anyone the pervasiveness of his monitoring activities. 

“I _am_ expecting him. Send him in immediately. And we are not to be disturbed – for _**anything.**_ I don’t care if the President of these fucking United States calls. Is that clear?” 

After tapping the intercom off, Osborn sat behind his desk, which he had righted and dragged back into position. 

_I don’t believe in deities, but there **are** devils. I have a personal one Fate cruelly uses to humiliate me time and time again. And she is laughing heartily at my expense again tonight._

The double doors of Osborn’s office parted, allowing Peter Parker to slowly walk through. He watched the doors shut behind him, then turned to face Osborn, still several lengths away due to the office's expanse. He stood fast, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Norman to speak. 

“Take a seat, Peter,” Osborn said casually, not looking at him, speaking as if he were giving his admin directions for the 50th time that day. 

“What - do you want - Norman?” Peter, remaining unmoved, asked slowly, distilling the sentence into three pronounced bites, conveying his contempt without raising his voice. 

Norman turned away with eyes closed, his face contorting as he struggled to maintain a semblance of diplomacy and self-control.

“Please, Peter – sit down,” he said when he finally turned to face his enemy again. 

“ _Not_ until you answer my question, Norman. _What - do - you - want_?” 

“Goddamn you, Parker!” Osborn shot up out of his chair, eyes flaring. Peter remained unmoved and unimpressed. Norman Osborn’s explosive temperament never intimidated him as it did others, since he was more than Osborn’s equal in many ways. Both men knew if Peter ever truly sought to kill him, he could. He had come perilously close at least twice. 

Osborn sat back down. “As demeaning to me as this is...I am in need of your assistance.” 

Peter finally advanced toward Osborn’s desk. 

“Oh, really? Gee, can I have time to think about it? Scratch that, I don't need it. Go fuck yourself, Norman." 

Osborn closed his eyes, attempting to obscure his mounting anguish. While remaining outwardly calm, his next words were laced with both anger - and desperation. 

“Parker… _Please_.” 

Peter was momentarily without an appropriate quip. He had known Osborn long enough to recognize when that scheming and manipulative personality was faking sincerity and emotion. _This_ time, however, there was genuine _pain_ in that voice, a pain not heard since the night of Harry's first overdose, when he literally dragged Norman to the hospital room to see for himself how far his son had fallen. Peter quietly sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the desk, noting the several pronounced cracks and scratches. Since Osborn didn't troll garage sales in a pickup truck, there was likely a story behind its condition. 

“Time to go to Staples and replace this desk, Norman. And didn't you use to have more furniture in here?“ 

Ignoring him, Osborn opened a drawer and pulled out three white boxes, each of them one foot long and four inches wide. He placed two next to each other in front of Peter, but kept the third one close. 

“These began to appear on site at each of my facilities that were attacked. I told you my theories about radical environmental groups and religious extremists who opposed my companies' waste management practices and biological research.” 

“And I told you I knew that was bullshit.” 

“At first, each site had a variation of one of these.” Norman opened a box to display its occupant - a Green Goblin doll. “There are more. That’s just the first one left behind. He was telling me he was active again…and that he knew my secrets.” 

“Who?” 

“I didn’t know - until this came.” 

Osborn pushed the first box aside and opened the second, revealing a blond Barbie doll, the head snapped at the neck, barely remaining attached to the rest of the body. The clothes and black headband left no doubt _who_ it represented. A cotton ball was stuffed under the shirt – simulating a pregnancy. 

“Oh dear lord.” 

“It was then I knew _who_ he was and _what_ this was about.” 

“Miles Warren, the Jackal.” 

“Yes.” 

Peter leaned back and sighed. Another name from the past. Another treasure trove of haunting memories. Another lunatic whose feud with Spider-Man became horrifyingly personal after the enemy learned the name of the man behind the mask. 

“With him, it’s about Gwen. It’s always about Gwen,” Peter said. 

Professor Miles Warren had been Peter Parker's and his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy’s, biology professor at Empire State University several years ago. At the time, Peter considered Warren more than simply an instructor, but also a friend. Unbeknownst to him, however, Warren developed a bizarre fixation on Gwen. After she died in the wake of a memorable battle between Spider-Man and the Green Goblin, Warren snapped, adopting the identity of the Jackal. In the process, he learned Peter's alter ego, and chose to hold him singularly responsible for Gwen’s death. More than one of his mad schemes utilized his cloning expertise to create replicas of both Peter and Gwen. Ironically, many of Warren’s early experiments were funded by Norman Osborn himself as part of the latter’s own plot against Spider-Man. As a result of cloning Gwen, and replicating her memories up to the time he obtained her genetic samples, it was apparent Warren had learned a long hidden secret. 

“So,” Peter said. “Now, _we_ know that _he_ knows.” 

“I wasn’t myself when that happened, Parker and it was only once. And it was NOT about you.” 

It may have been the only thing in more than 15 years of conflict that wasn’t. 

The two men never spoke of it to each other. Many years ago during a brief respite when Osborn was unaware of his other identity, he and Gwen had a night together through a complicated, nonrecurring series of events. It was a mutual indiscretion both parties regretted and was not repeated. However, it resulted in a secret pregnancy and the birth of twins Peter only recently met. Strangely, Osborn never gloated about it, perhaps because he was loathe to admit to himself or anyone else he had ever been weak and vulnerable. Peter’s reasons for not directly confronting Osborn were murky even to himself, likely because he had his own memories of Gwen, and some things he simply didn’t want to know, as she was long dead and her perspective on the events was forever lost. 

“Frankly, Norman, I’m surprised he hasn’t targeted you earlier, given you’re the one who killed her.” 

“ _I’m_ not the one who forgot the laws of physics and snapped her neck bringing her to that sudden stop. Even a simple and pathetic mind like Warren’s knows that. He also knew Gwen was there in the first place because of _you_ \- because she knew _you_ \- because she was stupid enough to love _you_. He knows who is truly to blame.” 

Peter closed his eyes and grimaced, stifling the urge to leap across the desk and put his hands around Osborn's throat. “What about the last box?” Peter asked before the conversation careened beyond control. 

Norman slid it across the desk to let Peter open it himself. The green skin, black hat and clothing identified it as a Wicked Witch of the West doll. The doll’s body was encircled in twine with a strip of tape around its mouth and head, looking like the work of a boy getting back at his sister by “torturing” her dolls. 

What color was left in Peter’s face after the gruesome sight of the “Gwen” doll was now gone. “Does this mean what I think it does?” he asked, voice wavering, although he already knew the answer. 

“Warren has Idina. This was at her apartment. We were - supposed to meet tonight.” Osborn sighed and dropped his head just enough to break eye contact, failing in his attempt to mask the grief this discovery entailed. 

Peter slowly rose out of the chair and walked a few paces away from the desk. He sighed and shook his head in disgust before speaking again, keeping his back to Osborn. 

“You miserable, pathetic bastard,” he began with a low, measured calm, unsuccessfully trying to quell the steadily building rage. “When does it end, Norman? When do you stop dragging innocent people into your psycho circus? How high does the body count have to go?” 

Osborn sat stoically and did not respond. Peter could only imagine the effort it took to maintain that stoicism. He quickly walked back to the side of the desk where he had sat, leaned over, and slammed down his right palm. “So how does it feel Osborn? _How does it fucking feel_?” 

Remaining otherwise immoble, Osborn raised his head to look Peter in the eye. 

“Are you done, Parker?” He asked as calmly as if he were requesting the salt from the other side of the dinner table. “Will you help – or are you only interested in scoring debating points?” 

Peter backed away, straightened, balled his fists and placed them on his sides. 

“I’m sorry, Norman…but only for _her_ …. _ **not**_ for you.” 

“I'm asking neither for your misplaced pity nor misguided compassion, Parker. I merely ask your assistance in retrieving her.” 

“And _why_ should I help _you_ Norman?” 

“If it enables you to rationalize it, consider it helping _her_ , rather than _me_. She’s...” and Norman hesitated, “...innocent in all of this, Parker.” 

If Peter hadn’t known better, he would believe he actually sneered as if he were in a bad movie or comic book. “Well, I very much doubt that’s how Miles Warren sees it. You should know how that kind of mind thinks. But, why do you need _my_ help? You can hire all the mercenaries, ninjas, or super powered operatives you want. Not to mention you’re the goddamn Green Goblin for Christ’s sake.” 

“No one is better at getting into places they’re not supposed to be as stealthily as you, Parker. Also, I know you well enough to know saving Idina's life will be your first priority, above all else, allowing _me_ to deal with Warren. If I go in alone, I am - uncertain - that I could successfully do both. He may even expect me to bring an army to his door – but I don’t believe he would expect me to come to you.” 

“In exchange for _what?_ ” Peter's question was a reflex response to being asked for a favor by someone he despised, rather than any serious attempt at bartering. He already knew what he had to do. And Osborn knew that he knew. 

“I don’t have to offer you anything, Parker. In fact, I don’t even have to hold anything over your head, such as the lives of your Aunt or the Redhead. Because now that I’ve told you – you can't possibly turn your back on her. You are so amusingly predictable that way.” 

“You son of a bitch,” Peter angrily murmured, turning his back to Osborn so his enemy couldn't see his tormented expression, a result of the intense emotions tearing at him - hatred, anger, sadness, grief, anxiety, regret. For a moment, he considered leaping across the desk and ripping off Osborn's head. Despite how evenly matched they were physically, Spider-Man had the advantage in speed and agility. It might even be worth the fallout – not just to avenge Gwen and Harry, but save lives Osborn would imperil in the future. Presenting Norman's severed head to the Jackal ala Macduff with Macbeth’s would render Idina's kidnapping irrelevant, and he might consider freeing her. But then again, although difficult to fathom, Warren could be crazier and more unpredictable than Osborn. Even Norman had to tread carefully at times because he still had too much to lose. Warren had no such constraints. 

“Welcome to the madness, where those we care about become collateral damage because of the lives we’ve chosen," he said as he turned back to face Osborn. "It brings so many things into focus now, Norman, such as why the Green Goblin has been on a tear lately. I'd heard rumors about your nocturnal activities, but wasn't sure I believed them because the motive eluded me - until now. It’s Idina, isn’t it? You really do love her, don’t you? But being on your best behavior around her comes at a cost, doesn’t it? You know what will happen if she gets a glimmer of your true nature, so you roll out the charming philanthropist and friend of humanity act for her – with the Goblin as your release valve. But you can’t keep up the facade can you, Norman? It's not as hard when you're being your usual son of a bitch to everyone, but _now_ you're with a public figure followed by paparazzi and teenage girls with I-phones. It's taking every bit of self control you have and more to keep her and the world from seeing the sick and sorry bastard you are – to keep them from seeing that the Green Goblin and Norman Osborn are one and the same – and it’s not just the costume. 

“I can’t imagine how self-delusional you had to be, Osborn, to even think you could have a normal relationship with another human being? How long did you think you could compartmentalize your life like that without it all blowing apart? Before she got suspicious? Maybe you've been smart and careful enough to keep yourself out of prison, but you’re already sentenced to life wthout parole in that self-made purgatory of yours.” 

“Spare me your dime-store psychoanalysis, Parker, and take a long look in the mirror. We’re much alike, you and I.” 

“I'm nothing like you, Norman – NOTHING!” 

Osborn stood and leaned across the desk, his tone remaining measured. “Oh please – in many ways we are very much alike, and you wish you were _more_ like me. You wish you had what I have, or could do what I can. How many years have you paraded around in that clown costume, plucking cats out of trees and helping old ladies cross the street? What has it gotten you? You’re worse off now than when you first became Spider-Man. You had a future before this superhero bullshit, a plan for your life, things you wanted to accomplish. But now it's all one huge directionless clusterfuck. You don’t have a nickel to your name. You can’t hold a real job so you keep crawling to that fool Jameson for the bread crumbs he tosses you. You live in a shithole while I sleep in luxury! When was the last time you got laid, Parker? Why isn't the Redhead spreading her legs open for you anymore? You have the balls to tell me I can’t have a normal relationship with another human being? I’m with one of the most famous women on the fucking planet! And you? You can’t take care of a woman, Parker – financially, emotionally, and probably not even... ” 

“ _ **SHUT UP!**_ ” 

After a tense moment of silence, Osborn resumed. “Stop lying to yourself, Parker. You’re damn near close to crossing that pathetic moral line of yours already. I saw what you left of Stan Carter for killing Jean DeWolffe. And I know how badly you want to kill me! The only reason you haven’t flipped completely is because _I_ haven’t pushed those buttons yet…and maybe I won’t even have to.” 

Peter took a deep breath and held his tongue, knowing if this continued escalating, they'd soon be at blows, and beating each other senseless would not save Idina. 

“Where do you think he’ll take her?” Peter asked in a quieter tone, sitting back down. Osborn simultaneously reached the same conclusion about their mutual behavior and slowly sat back down in his own chair. 

“At first, I thought the bridge,” he said, clicking on a remote which activated a security screen by his desk, which showed the Brooklyn Bridge. “But I’ve had that under constant surveillance. And even a small and petty mind like Warren’s might find that too predictable. The tracker in the limousine Warren appropriated was discarded at Idina’s apartment and neither the car nor driver has been located. I doubt either ever will be.” 

“There were no notes with the doll or messages scrawled in blood on a billboard for you to see?"

“No.” 

“Maybe the doll itself is the clue to her location,” Peter suggested. 

“It's been scanned. There's nothing beyond what you presently see. It’s clearly meant to tell me he has Idina. The Wicked Witch was her signature role. Maybe he has yet to provide me the location.” 

Peter gently lifted the doll out of the box, stared at it, and continued to ruminate. 

“Maybe. But consider this: what Idina’s “signature role” is could depend on your age or perspective. A Rent Head might think differently than a _Wicked_ fan, for example. But, really - why didn't he leave Elsa from _Frozen_? It’s been a long time since Idina was in _Wicked_. _Frozen_ is much more recent in everyone’s memory and that song was EVERYWHERE. Even your grandson probably makes that connection. If I simply wanted to let you know I had her, I'd use that. 

“And - look at it from _your_ perspective. In all of our conflicts over the years, I _never_ once involved or used anyone you might have cared about. But then again, that’s a virtually nonexistent pool to draw from. Yet, more than once you've struck at me through those I care for. And you know what? That’s a _coward’s_ way of handling a situation, Norman. A man resolves his problems with another man face to face. So why do you do it? Because you’re a coward?” 

“You're disingenuous when you say you’ve never used anyone against me. You used my own son against me time and time again. And Warren _is_ a coward.” 

“You're an idiot, Osborn. We’ve no time for this bullshit. _Answer the fucking question!_ ” 

Norman glared at Peter and spoke deliberately. “It is no longer simply about _you_ , Parker. You haven’t existed in a vacuum all of these years. Those closest to you have enabled your pathetic behavior, whether knowingly or not is irrelevant. Spider-Man's continued existence owes as much to those who have provided you aid and comfort as it does that wretched radioactive arachnid that gave you your powers.” 

After pausing, Osborn continued in a muted, less confrontational manner. “And that’s why...no matter what I do…he _will_ kill her.” 

“So, he’s not just using Idina as a lure. He wants to punish and humiliate _her_ for doing something so profoundly _stupid_ as have a relationship with Norman Osborn. And he’s going to tell her in no uncertain terms that she’s going to die because of _you_.” 

Osborn sat expressionless. If he recognized any of the irony, he was not about to give Peter the satisfaction of admitting it. 

“So, is any of this registering with you, Osborn?” 

“No distortion of the facts can justify your crimes against my family.” 

“ _ **My**_ \- ?” Peter stopped, sighed and shook his head. It was useless. He was arguing with a sociopath. Not only was Osborn unwilling to admit the situation's karmic nature, he might actually be incapable. It was pointless to continue this debate. An innocent woman was in danger, and he and Osborn would have to work together to save her – no matter how unpleasant the experience was going to be. 

“All right,” Peter continued. “Professor Warren is a lunatic, but he's a fairly creative one with a sadistic sense of humor. So, where could he take her that would provide _him_ with the greatest amount of ironic amusement? What would he consider to be the proper forum for her to die? If he had left Elsa behind, I would suggest starting with Madison Square Garden, Sky Rink at Chelsea Piers, or maybe even the damn Disney Store. If the token were _Rent_ -related, I'd consider looking in the East Village, maybe Tompkins Square Park. But since this is - ” 

The wheels were already spinning in Osborn’s head after Peter made the Elsa analogy as he quickly turned to one of his desktop computers and typed. Finding what he was looking for, he again faced Peter. 

“The Gershwin Theatre is dark tonight.” 

  


  
  
**To be Continued in Chapter 7 - "I'll be Heartless Killing Her." What else needs to be said?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The background of Norman and Kolina was lifted directly from the miniseries _Revenge of the Green Goblin_ , which was also the first story to give us the name of Norman's long-dead, oft-referenced wife, Emily. That story demonstrated that on those rare occassions when a woman is able to get into Norman's affections, he becomes totally besotted, as he does here with Idina.


	7. I'll be Heartless Killing Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman Osborn confronts the Jackal to save the life of Idina Menzel. Will Osborn’s back-up plan be in position when the moment counts? Or does the curtain come down for good on Idina?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been to the Gershwin Theatre and seen _Wicked_ and took imperfect notes on how the building is laid out. You'll still need some suspension of disbelief as our characters make their way through it.
> 
> Also, yes, there are supervillain monologues – but – isn’t that what supervillains do? Besides, someone has to explain the mechanics of the plot and the backgrounds of the characters’ conflicts to the reader – and it’s a lot more fun to let the supervillains do it.

  


  
"Wake up little girl, time's-a-wastin'!" Idina heard as the pungent odor of ammonia released by the smelling salts under her nose jarred her awake. Groggy and unaware of her surroundings, she uttered a loud " _ **What the fuck?**_ " her tried and true reflex to a surprise situation. 

"Well! If I had any doubts about doing _this_ , that foul little outburst took care of them," the voice continued as what felt like a handkerchief or other cloth was stuffed into her mouth. Before she could protest, another cloth was wound around her head, covering the lower part of her face under her nose, and tightly knotted in the back. She released a muffled moan as her hair became painfully entangled within the knot. 

“I woke you up because I didn’t want you accidentally choking to death on that gag. No dying before the show starts.” 

As her senses returned, it didn’t take long for Idina to realize _where_ she was - the dressing room of the actress playing Elphaba, currently Christine Dwyer. It wasn’t _her_ old dressing room when she originated the role as recent renovations had turned it into a public restroom, which she wryly noted in a Tweet. But the surprise of her current location was quickly supplanted by terror as she realized she was in serious trouble. Her wrists were bound behind her back, ankles and knees tied together, rope encircling her chest above and below her breasts, fastening her securely to a chair. 

She didn’t get a good look at her captor before he left the room, but what she saw…didn’t seem altogether human. He departed with a cheery "I've got to step out and work on a big surprise. But I'll be back - don't go anywhere!" 

Idina tried yelling after him, but the gag muted her voice, and he likely would have ignored it anyway. She tried loosening her bonds, first by striving with her wrists and shifting her legs, but couldn't create any play within her bindings. Her bare feet were suspended just above the floor, and when she tried moving them, she felt tension on her bound wrists as they pulled downward. 

_Fuck. I'm in really deep shit here. Who the fuck is this and what does he want? And why the hell don't I have my shoes? This isn't some weird shoe or foot guy is it?_ She then remembered the limo driver asking about Norman Osborn. _Norman said he had enemies. Has one of them kidnapped me? Well, I'm not going to just sit helplessly and wait for whatever this bastard has planned. There's got to be something on the make-up table I can use to get myself out of this_. 

She tried to jerk up and down and move her chair closer to the table, but as the taut rope leading from her ankles to her wrists didn’t allow her to put her feet on the floor for leverage, the chair barely moved. And after one particularly violent thrust, it pitched over onto the floor.

_Sonofabitch!_ , she thought after landing on her right shoulder. _At least I didn’t hit my head._ But now she was really stuck as how she was tied didn't allow her to scoot across the floor, although she vigorously tried. Calling out ifor someone's attention was vain as her muffled cries didn't carry far outside the door. She rubbed her face on the floor to loosen her gag, but it was tied too tightly, and how she was adhered to the chair precluded her from placing her cheek firmly enough against the ground to do much other than rub a small part of her skin raw. The only movements she could make were just enough in her hands and feet to keep them from going completely numb. 

Every few minutes she re-tried various tactics, but after an indeterminable length of time, made worse because she couldn't see a clock, she realized all she was doing was exhausting and frustrating herself. Still, _I can't give up. I've got to check on Walker! Who says this lunatic won't go after other people in my family_? But during another round of struggling, the door opened and she got her first good look at her captor. Rather than the middle-aged man who had been her driver – what the hell was _this_? 

“Oh please, give it up, girlfriend!” The voice sounded similar to the driver's, but it came from – some kind of creature – tall, lean, dark green, with short hairs all over the body. While clearly meant to represent some kind of animal (the hair and large misshapen ears suggested as much), she couldn’t ascertain if he was wearing a costume – or if it was really _him_. When he smiled, she saw fangs, but were they real or prosthetic? He was largely naked, except for what appeared to be similarly colored, almost perfectly camouflaged briefs across his mid-section. Claws were at his other extremities – but again, no way to tell if these were gloves – or real. Overall, he looked like a tall, fuzzy mutant Yoda. 

“My, my - look at you," he said as he knelt by her head. "You're a feisty one aren’t you? See, you’ve got no one but yourself to blame for why you’re tied to that chair because I _knew_ you would get into all sorts of trouble otherwise. I have to give you credit, though, I always assumed old Norman liked his women quiet and compliant. You certainly go against _that_ grain. He must really have it _baaaaaad_ for you.” 

As he stood back up, lifting her chair and righting her, she tried asking, "Who the fuck are you?” which despite her gag, he understood. 

“My name and why I look like this would mean absolutely nothing to you,” he replied, pulling up a chair in front of her and sitting down. “If I told you my origin story, it'd sound like a really bad 1970’s comic book. _Of course_ I have a supervillain non de plume – the Jackal – but after awhile I realized how pedestrian that sounded, particularly when so many other supervillains use animal names - Scorpion, Vulture, Rhino, Octopus, on and on and on. So, just call me Professor Warren. And I have a very, very serious grudge against Norman Osborn. 

“But I really do have to thank you,” he continued, “because injecting yourself into this little drama not only made this _sooooo_ much easier for me, but a lot more fun. I mean, I was going through a lot of mental gymnastics trying to prepare for tonight, and I kept getting hung up on just how the hell was I going to con old Norman into walking into my lair? Wait a minute, did I just say “lair”? You spend enough time in this business, using the clichés becomes inevitable. Anyway, I mean, the man's a lunatic, but he’s a pretty smart lunatic. I knew he didn’t give a shit about his daughter-in-law, so I couldn't use her against him, and using his grandson is beneath me. What kind of asshole terrorizes a six year old kid? It's not like he asked to be born into that group of whack jobs. Then there was the whole problem of finding an appropriate stage for my scheme to play out. See what I did there? But then I saw the two of you on TMZ, and…” he looked up at the ceiling and motioned his arms “then the clouds parted. I knew exactly what to do – and where. And the irony is just _sooooo_ delicious - you playing a green-skinned witch and him being the _Green_ Goblin." 

_No. It can't be true. There has to be a mistake._

"What - ?" the Jackal exclaimed in genuine surprise as the furious glare left Idina's eyes and she turned away. " _Seriously_? _You didn't know_? You bought into his bullshit? And here I was hoping you weren't just another empty-headed diva. Damn, that's disappointing."

Idina turned back with fury re-ignited. " _Fuck you, Asshole!_ " was the only coherent phrase amidst the littany of stifled curses and other profane exclamations during an otherwise garbled thirty second rant. It was useless trying to _talk_ to this character given her restraints, but she could still leave no doubt what she thought of him and his accusations. Norman had his issues - but this "Professor Warren" character was obviously a fucking nutjob.

"You are a real piece of work, girl," the Jackal said with a bemused expression. "I think I see why old Norman's got the hots for you. You're as crazy as he is. And you're distracting me from my supervillain monologue! 

"Now where was I? Oh yeah. So - thank you for making this diabolical plan of mine come together so nicely. And you even wore _black_ for the occasion, which is just perfect! Holy shit, this is nice stuff! How much are you pulling per week after taxes, health insurance, equity dues and mani-pedis? Trust me, that bastard Osborn is not worth any of this! Oh, don't worry about me helping myself to your thoroughly plowed womanhood. You're not my type. I prefer blondes. Although – say – you don’t suppose Kristin…? Maybe you can call her, and we can double date. You, Norman, me and her. But she’s probably not a natural blonde is she? I really hate that.” 

_I don’t believe this. This really is like a bad comic book. Who talks like this?_ Did he really think he was funny? Was he even crazier than she originally thought? Or was it part of a game to punctuate his cruelty and sadism? Likely all three. 

Feeling she had nothing to lose, she violently shook the chair again, capping it off with the only thing that could give her a moment of satisfaction, using her preferred profanity to describe him as she demanded he free her. Even gagged, _that_ came across loud and clear. 

“An Oedipus Complex? _Me_? I loved my mother, but _damn._ And I've **never** heard such a potty mouth on a woman - or a lot of men for that matter. 

“Look, Dee…I can call you Dee, right? We’re obviously very close. After all, how many people do you let tie you up? Yeah, about that - I thought I was above the whole bound and gagged damsel in distress cliche, particularly since no one would hear you. We’re all alone in the theater except for a couple of my assistants. But you gave me no choice. And after all, I am a _supervillain_ , and supervillains do dastardly things like kidnapping and tying up the love interest of the hero. Then, we go on long monologues about any number of topics, as you can no doubt tell. And _that_ would be really hard to do if you sat there and yammered at me like a nagging wife, which I have no doubt you would considering how notorious _your_ loud mouth is. I'd never get a word in edgewise! But it’s time you realized – Norman Osborn is _no_ hero. Oh, the things I could tell you about him and his extracurricular activities. You could not have picked a more abominable human being if you tried. 

“But you wanna know something else? I really, _really_ don’t like that screechy, ear splitting noise maker you and your idiot prepubescent fans call a singing voice! And _I hate that fucking song of yours from that movie!_ There's been no escape from that goddamn thing! It's used as a form of torture in half the third world dictatorships on the planet! So, listening to you scream your head off would have made me crazy! Tonya Pinkins _soooooo_ should’ve won the Tony instead of you that year.” 

_If he's not going to let me talk back or scream at him or something I wish he would just shut the fuck up!_

He rose and walked behind her. “But that part’s not personal. Everyone’s musical tastes are different. I’m just not into belters. Sutton Foster could be sitting all tied up in that chair.” Then, his tone shifted from sarcastic to angry as he grabbed her hair, pulled her head back and brought his face close enough to her that she could feel his breath. “Except – Sutton Foster wasn’t stupid enough to keep company with Norman Fucking Osborn!” 

He threw her head forward and walked over to face her again. She glared at him thinking _Norman will kill you, you son of a bitch. Or I’ll tell him to hold you and do it myself._ She never thought she could be so angry at someone she would actually revel at the opportunity to do just that. It was against everything she believed in – but she would make an exception for this "Professor Warren." When he resumed talking, however, he returned to his mocking, humorous tone as if the earlier angry outburst had not occurred. 

“Honestly, why the goddamn Green Goblin? Is it really the whole green thing with you? Because that's just lame. After all, why not Doctor Octopus? He wears green a lot – eh, but has no style. Too many “hands” and you never know where those tentacles have been. Vulture’s so old not even a Viagra Bomb could raise that flag. With Electro – talk about smoking after sex – literally. And if it’s just supervillains in general you like regardless of color – well – I guess Kraven would smell like lion shit, you’d never get all of the sand out of the sheets if you did it with Sandman, and Venom's just gross. I mean I understand the long tongue thing, but all that drool! And then there's the whole brain eating bit. If you’re into Goblins, though, why not the original Hobgoblin? Now _that_ dude can accessorize!" 

He walked behind her and effortlessly dragged her to the make-up table, then pulled up a chair for himself. Neatly laid out on the table was a container of green Chromacake, a bowl of water, and a wide Japanese brush, components of an actress’ nightly transformation into Elphaba. 

“Tonight will be a very special night because _you_ are going to deliver a rousing encore performance of your most famous role,” he said, sitting back down in front of her. He dabbed the brush in the water, then the makeup, and slathered her face with it. She jerked her head away to foil his efforts, but he grabbed her jaw with his other hand and snapped her around to face him, scowling as his joviality momentarily vanished. “Hold still, Idina, or I'll give you some **real** scars as well. After all, you simply can’t go on stage without your green make-up.” He "greenified" her entire face, including the cloth tied around her mouth, her neck, and after a "hmm," and a moment of contemplation, the portion of her upper chest bordered by her dress' "V" neck. 

“Can’t forget this,” he said, plucking one of the infamous black, pointy witch’s hats off a cone and placing it on her head, pulling it down to ensure a snug fit without needing to pin it to her hair. 

After inspecting his work, he walked behind her and cut the ropes affixing her to the chair with his claws (real or not, she still couldn't tell, but they were certainly sharp), as well as those around her knees and ankles. Her wrists remained bound behind her back. She barely felt her feet drop to the floor, only the painful tingling that comes with circulation rushing back into those areas where the blood flow was earlier restricted. 

“Let's go. We’ve got to get you ready for the show.” 

He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the chair, intending her to walk with him. However, with the numbness in her feet, her first steps were halting.

"That's why I took off your shoes. No way you'd be able to walk in those damn stilettos after being tied up, and I wasn't carrying you, because it's cooler if you _walk_ to your doom. Hope you didn't think I was one of those weirdos. So, come on, I expect your boyfriend to be paying a visit very shortly and I want everything to be just right for him." 

As the Jackal “escorted” Idina from the dressing room to the stage, he continued talking nonstop about things she had no context for understanding, her frustration compounded by the fact she couldn’t even ask what the hell he was talking about! 

“Sigh…I really wanted to do the bridge thing. That would have been perfect karma and appropriately ironic. But, it's an overused plot device, and Norman would expect that. Besides, even if you were dangling from the bridge, crapping in your panties, there just wouldn’t be the appropriate amount of irony for _you_. No, the bridge is a Gwen Stacy thing. But _this_ ….” 

_A what thing? Was that the name of a person?_

After making their way to the auditorium and reaching the foot of the stage, the Jackal made a sweeping gesture toward the proscenium, which included the Time Dragon, the large gears, the bramble covered balconies and the Land of Oz curtain. 

“ _This_ has some meaning to _you_ – doesn’t it? It wasn’t your first big part, but it was here you went from being just some vulgar, talentless little cunt with a lucky debut role to a so-called “superstar.” It's only fitting that here is where that star finally burns out and dies. A "supernova" if you want to be really clever and reference that current piece of shit you're doing. 

“And I know you have an affinity for trap doors. Once you see my little prop, you’ll realize just how _perfect_ this whole set-up is,” he said, pressing a button on the device he held in his other hand, prompting the curtain to rise. Idina’s eyes opened wide in horror and a muffled "No!" escaped from her gag when she saw the contraption at the other end of the stage. She made a desperate attempt to wrest herself from the Jackal’s grasp, which only succeeded in him tightening his grip on her upper arm until she mmpphhed in pain. 

“Time to take your place, Idina, for your _final_ curtain call.” 

  


  
The Gershwin Theatre, like many New York City theaters, was not a stand-alone architecturally majestic place. Many of those disappeared during Time Square's "gentrification," or "Disneyfication," as critics were wont to call it. Rather, the theater occupied the lower levels of a 48-story skyscraper known as Paramount Plaza, with the parking garage straddling 50th  & 51st Streets in what unceremoniously looked like a large concrete block, affixed to the Plaza on one side and an apartment building on the other. It would normally be inconspicuous among the rest of Midtown Manhattan's asphalt, concrete, and steel except for the large vertical _Wicked_ promotional sign with the iconic caricature of Glinda whispering to Elphaba. 

At eleven o’clock in the evening Norman Osborn’s driver turned left off 50th street and drove half the length of the access road under the parking garage. Less than five hours ago he and Peter Parker reviewed the architectural layouts of the Gershwin that Osborn accessed and devised a strategy. While he loathed trusting Parker, his unique talents, including his spider-sense and knack for evading detection made him an invaluable ally in these matters. Osborn bemoaned the waste of Peter’s life over the last several years on his naïve, foolish, and idealistic crusades when his talents could have been more effectively utilized working with, rather than opposing, Osborn’s objectives. 

He was certain Warren knew he had arrived. In fact, he was counting on having the Jackal’s full attention. He stepped out of the car, waived his driver off, and took in the surroundings. To his left was the ground level parking garage entrance and cashier's office, and to his right were the four revolving door entrances into the Gershwin. To the right of the Gershwin's doors was another theater, also part of the Paramount Plaza building, known as the Circle in the Square Theatre, currently featuring six time Tony winner Audra McDonald in _Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill_. Theater security within sight included one man in front of the entrances and another milling around inside. He walked past the garage's supporting pillars, adorned with life-size pictures of Kerry Ellis, the first British Elphaba (who actually succeeded Idina after the latter originated the role in London's West End, and who later transferred to Broadway), and Kendra Kassebaum as Glinda. The outside guard motioned to the set of revolving doors that were unlocked and said “You're expected, Osborn.” 

_Of course. Warren’s people. Probably clones. Sometimes I regret funding his research._

A mock-up of the Time Dragon Clock was to Osborn's left and directly ahead was the souvenir stand where t-shirts and other wares were on display. The box office was at the far right. The inside guard motioned him to the stand, told him to place his hands on the top of the counter. After scanning him with a small hand held device, the guard pulled Osborn's (new) cell phone out of his suit jacket. Osborn grimaced as the filthy, vulgar hands of Warren's henchman touched his person. Under other circumstances he would have effortlessly eliminated both men, but he remained mindful of the stakes. 

“He’s clean,” the guard stated. “All he has is his phone.” At that moment, Osborn's phone vibrated and the guard returned it to him. 

"It's for you." 

The caller ID merely said “UNKNOWN,” but he had no doubt who it was.

_“Norm!”_ the voice within shouted in mock reference to the old _Cheers_ TV series. _“You made it!”_

“Dispense with the prattle, Warren. Release Idina and we'll settle our differences like men.” 

_“Yeah, right. You know the way. Go up the escalators to the second floor, and then through one of the doors into the orchestra section - left, right, doesn't matter. There's a young lady quite anxious to see you. Eh - not so young any more. Middle age is creeping up on her, but you get the idea. First, though, I want you to put your green and purple play clothes on. That's non-negotiable._ ” 

“I don’t have them as I’m sure you already know." Osborn was dressed in his standard, tailored, two-piece suit and tie. "And if Idina has so much as a fingerprint of yours on her...” 

_“Blah blah blah - you suck as a knight in shining armor, Osborn. I know you have hidey holes all over the city and you can remotely summon one of your stupid toy gliders to bring them to you at a moment’s notice. After the glider brings your costume, leave that and whatever armory you thought about sneaking in outside. No pumpkin bombs, razor bats or sonic toads! And then turn your phone back to my man. No cleverness. One step into the auditorium without your pajamas on and she'll be dead before you take the second.”_

_Damn_. Osborn had held out a slim hope he could navigate the evening _without_ Idina learning everything. He had no doubt Warren had already told her the secrets he did know, but Norman could have spun that as the ravings of a madman. Any actual demonstration she might see of what he could do, however, could not be easily undone. Still, even if the Jackal dropped dead this very moment, Idina likely now had doubts and concerns that could never be totally dismissed. 

“I have to step outside to summon the glider,” Osborn told Warren’s henchman inside the building. Once outside, he spoke into his cell phone, and within two minutes the glider literally appeared out of nowhere in front of him. Sensing the surprise of Warren’s outside man, Osborn merely said “Cloaking device. Ever watch _Star Trek_?” 

Norman removed a large satchel from the glider and walked back into the theater as the glider disappeared, cloaked again. Warren’s inside man rummaged through the satchel, returning it to Osborn once satisfied it contained only the Goblin costume. 

“Upstairs,” said the guard, gesturing towards the escalators. “I’m to accompany you." 

“Whatever you say.” 

An escalator bank was on each end of the first floor, leading to the second. The wall behind the right escalator displayed a rendering of Munchkinland while the left portion of the wall featured Shiz University. Osborn walked past the program stand and chose the right, letting the escalator do the work, the Jackal's man three steps below him. 

The second floor lobby was a potpourri of artifacts and exhibits, housing the Theater Hall of Fame. The memorabilia within had been donated by many of the 400 Hall inductees, including some of the most famous names in stage and screen history, and the walls were lined with framed photographs of Broadway alumni. The lobby also included two long bars, one by each entrance to the orchestra section, where patrons could purchase alcoholic drinks, several small kiosks for souvenirs collectively referred to as Ozdust Boutiques, a photo booth, and most importantly at the moment, a facility where Osborn could change. 

“I’m not going to have to do this in front of you, am I? “ He asked the guard upon stopping in front of the restroom. “Because I’m a very modest person.” 

“Your phone, Osborn,” Warren’s man said, his tone suggesting little patience with Norman’s sarcasm. 

“Yes, of course," Osborn said upon tossing the man his cell phone. Upon grabbing it, however, the guard convulsed violently as the phone emitted a powerful current electrocuting him within seconds. His body collapsed to the floor, smelling of burnt flesh. 

“Bet that smarted." The body then disentegrated into ash. _Clone degeneration. As I suspected._ He had no doubt the Jackal had seen _that_ unfold as well, but knew Warren cared nothing about his assistants. He could always grow new ones. 

After changing, but leaving the mask attached to his belt, Osborn exited the restroom. Before the door shut behind him the thundrous mixture of crashing cymbals, horns and drumrolls resonated throughout the complex as the overture to _Wicked_ began. Osborn slowly walked to the auditorium entrance as the music from the original cast album shifted to the frantic scrambling of the flying monkeys, who would normally prance in front of the curtain just before it opened. The auditorium was dark except for the stage lights highlighting the Time Dragon and the curtain featuring “The Land of Oz” map. The map's center featured a rendition of the Emerald City, which glowed a bright, bedazzling green. He stopped at the threshold and looked about. The orchestra section seating was in three partitions, and Osborn cautiously chose to proceed down the aisle between center and right. Under other circumstances, he would never make himself so openly vulnerable, but it was imperative Warren's focus be entirely upon him. 

" _Good neeeeeeeeeeeews! She's deeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaad! The Witch of the West is dead!"_

During a performance the curtain would have opened as the colorfully dressed ensemble danced to the opening number. However, the ropes and pulleys connected to the Time Dragon Clock _were_ functioning as the Dragon's red eyes glowed and smoke billowed from its mouth.

_"The Wickedest Witch there ever was, the enemy of all of us here in Oz, is deeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaad! Good news! Good neeeeeewwwwwwwws!"_

The curtain rose after the line “Look, it’s Glinda!” and the recording stopped. A spotlight shown on Glinda’s bubble as it descended from the ceiling. The “bubble” was a mechanical clock pendulum to which the actress playing Glinda would be clipped with a safety wire. Rather than a petite blond in a glittering blue dress, it was the Jackal standing within the bubble. Fortunately he didn’t have the gall to turn on the bubble machine.

“It’s good to see me, isn’t it?” the Jackal’s voice boomed throughout the theater, mockingly repeating the initial lines. “No need to respond – that was rhetorical. Fellow supervillains…” He ceased following the _Wicked_ script and launched into a horrendously fake Southern accent “...allow me to introduce mah beloved fren', an’ glamorous co-star – Idina Menzel!” 

Osborn didn’t recognize the reference, but the Jackal had done his homework, adopting a deliberately bad Kristin Chenoweth accent mimicing a line from Forbidden Broadway’s _Wickeder_ parody. 

A spotlight shone where Idina stood onstage. She was on a makeshift gallows with a noose around her neck. Her arms were bound to her chest, wrists tied behind her back, ankles and knees tied together, and she was still gagged. Her face, including the cloth tied around her mouth, neck and exposed part of her chest were green, her head topped with Elphaba’s hat. She leaned forward and tried calling to Norman, unable to see him as the auditorium was dark with the exception of the spot lights. 

_BASTARD!_ Osborn thought, watching Idina struggle vigorously with her bonds, and growing increasingly angered with her humiliation at the Jackal's hands. Warren couldn't die painfully enough tonight. 

Once he crossed half the distance from the entrance to the stage, the Jackal exclaimed “Not another step, Osborn or your girlfriend goes to that Emerald City in the sky right now! See this?” He held up what appeared to be an innocuous looking remote. “I push a button, the platform opens and she drops just like the witches in old Salem. I thought it would be less messy than burning her at the stake, although that would've made for a helluva visual. So be a good boy, Norman, and let me have my supervillain moment.” 

“Warren, if you have any intention of living through this, you’ll step away from her, turn around, and walk out right now!” 

“Oh, and you’d just let me walk away, wouldn’t you, Norman? We both know better than that.” He stepped off the bubble, which had descended to the stage floor. “I’m sure you’re familiar with our show’s leading lady,” he teased, walking to the gallows and climbing the stairs to the platform where Idina stood, his attention focused on Osborn to ensure he didn’t move closer to the stage. 

“Like old home week, huh, Dee?” He addressed her, but kept his eyes on Osborn. 

_**"Fuck you!"**_ _That_ , while muffled, was not totally unintelligible, as she glared at him. 

“And that's why I had to gag her. She just won't stop going off script, " the Jackal said wryly. "Anyway, how many nights did you stand on this very spot and “die” – or – give the illusion of it? That’s actually something you and old Norm here have in common – faking death. I removed the lift under the stage and widened the hole, the one you slipped down into when Dorothy “melted” you. So, when the platform you're standing on opens, you’ll plunge through the floor, and either your neck will break – or you’ll strangle. I really don’t care _how_ you die - but I just _loooooove_ the irony.” 

Idina continued glaring at him. _As scared as I am, I'm not giving this bastard the satisfaction of seeing it_. She moved her fingers and toes to keep as much circulation and feeling in them as possible. 

“Idina, it’s time to see the truth…” The Jackal touched the remote, dimming the spotlights and lighting up the auditorium, revealing Norman Osborn as he wanted Idina to see him - clothed as the Green Goblin, although sans mask. 

She closed her eyes and turned away. _It **is** true. I suppose I’ve known since this horrible night began – or why would this be happening? I just didn't want to believe it. What terrible things has he done over the years? Was anything he told me the truth?_

“You forgot the mask, Norman.” 

“You’ve made your point, Warren.” 

“Put the goddamn mask on now, Norman! Or I drop her and break her neck as certainly as you and Spider-Man broke Gwen Stacy’s!” 

_That’s the second reference to a "Gwen Stacy_ ," Idina noted. _Who is, or was, Gwen Stacy?_

Osborn removed the mask from his belt and slowly pulled it over his face. The Jackal grabbed Idina’s chin tightly, forcing her to face front. 

“Look at him, Idina! _This_ is what he really is! _This_ is the man you would have brought into your son’s life! And into your inner circle of friends. And God knows what other places we won't talk about in polite company.” 

“Warren…I will rip your fucking heart out and feed it to you!” Osborn, increasingly livid, attempted to move closer. 

“Don't move, Osborn! Hey - why aren't you doing the Goblin voice? Don’t you have a modulator in there?” 

“Idina,” Norman pleaded directly to her. “Listen to me. This man is obviously insane. He’s a bitter, jealous weakling who blames others for his own failures and inadequacies. You’ve spent time with me. You _know_ the man _I_ am.” _Keep Warren talking, make him angry, distracted…_

“But she doesn’t, Norman! That’s why we’re here! She’s not the only "actor” in this room, although I use that term loosely in her case. I’m sick of you conning the world into thinking you’re a normal human being - or that you're even human at all! Idina, the Norman Osborn you think you know is a fraud. He wears this grotesque get-up to hide that he’s a small, weak man suffering from daddy issues, who misses his dear little wife and even that pathetic offspring of his. But Harry’s better off dead because he doesn’t have to suffer any more abuse from his shit father! 

“I told you I was a college professor. Harry was a student of mine, and he was one fucked up little varmint let me tell you. Sure, junior became the Green Goblin - _but Daddy was first!_ Junior was an amateur, more lost boy than criminal. But Daddy – _whooaaa_ do I have stories to tell about Daddy. He was a pro! 

“Maybe we can start with his deflowering of college girls. No really, this is a good one, you wanna hear it? He told you about poor, poor Harry. Did he ever tell you about those two bastard children of his? _**OR WHO THEIR MOTHER WAS?!**_ ” The Jackal screamed the last line. Idina had been clueless about the nature of Jackal's grudge against Osborn, as he remained vague during his earlier ranting and raving. This last exchange, however, suggested it was one of the oldest motivations for revenge in the books - a dispute over a woman. Could this be the repeatedly referenced Gwen Stacy? 

“Believe it or not, I was willing to let bygones be bygones, Osborn. I could have come after you for throwing Gwen off that bridge, but I didn’t. Well, I did think you were dead. I could have come after you for using and manipulating me during that clone saga fiasco, but I didn’t. I know you did that because you were trying to destroy that web slinging sonofabitch just like I was, using the best means available to you. And you _did_ fund my early cloning research, so I considered us even. But, later I found out you tapped into something _I_ never had the chance to, something not even _he_ took. And then - it became _personal_.” 

“If it’s that personal to you, Warren, free Idina and we'll go man-to-man. She's blameless in anything I've done.” 

“I don’t recall that being part of the bargain, Norman. Oh yeah, there was NO bargain. And she’s paying for her _own_ stupidity! Best take her out of the gene pool now before we have any badly singing Goblins! But you’ll get to watch her die before you do!” 

Idina closed her eyes. _This can’t be happening! Walker, I love you, and I’m so sorry_. Preoccupied with her presumed fate, she didn't notice what would have felt like a small tap on her upper back. 

_"KIIIILLLLL THE WIIIIIIIITCH!"_ the Jackal exclaimed, pressing the trigger on his remote. Idina felt the floor open under her feet yet remained aloft. She heard the soft _whoosh_ of something above her head, which neatly severed the rope suspending her from the gallows. Then she rose through the air into the rafters, letting out a high-pitched _mmmmppphhhh_. The witch hat flew off her head, and when she came to a stop she saw she was attached to a web line held by none other than Spider-Man. After pulling her up, he wrapped his arm around her waist and held onto her tightly. 

“Hi! I’m the Amazing Spider-Man! Will you sign my Playbill? Oooh – you don’t look so good.” 

This was Idina’s first face-to-face encounter with Spider-Man, and frankly, it was an underwhelming impression. As legendary as the stories were about his strength and abilities, he wasn't very tall, and seemed more toned than muscular under his costume. He also didn’t endear himself using the same lame joke as the EMTs who wheeled her out on a gurney after she broke her rib tumbling through the trap door during her final Broadway _Wicked_ performance - whether he was aware of that or not. 

“Hey Professor, your show should never have gotten out of workshop!” Spider-Man yelled down to the Jackal. 

“Spider-Man!” 

With the Jackal distracted by Spider-Man’s sudden rescue, Osborn charged the stage, but before reaching it, an explosion underfoot hurtled him backwards. While it would have been fatal to a normal person, between Osborn’s physical strength and body armor, he was only shaken, although he was down momentarily. 

“I told you not another inch, Norman! I’ll give you this – I _never_ guessed you would have gone to him _\- of all people_ \- for help. Ninjas – yes. The Expendables – yes. But not him. Speaking of fucked-up former students of mine! Well, time for Plan B!” With that, the Jackal quickly disappeared backstage. 

Spider-Man put Idina over his shoulder and jumped off the rafters yelling “Hang on, Elphie! It gets bumpy from here!” After falling a few feet, he shot a webline that attached to the bottom of the Time Dragon and swung upward. He released that line and shot another one onto the auditorium ceiling and flung them to the upper mezzanine. After kicking down the exit door and some nerve wracking gymnastics, he stopped on the second floor in front of a display case featuring part of the Dorothy Streslin Memorabilia Collection. 

“Thank you for flying Spidey Airlines! We hope you enjoyed your flight and we know you have a choice in carriers, so thanks for making it Spidey!” He stood her up against the display case with her back to him, and rather than wasting time undoing knots, he tore the ropes apart, freeing her. As he talked she rolled her eyes and mmpphhed at him to hurry. She’d heard about his jokes, too, and how bad they usually were. 

“See, this is why I no longer double date with Norman because it always ends in catastrophe. You should have seen what happened the last time when he was dating Kristin Chenoweth. They’ll never let us into Sardi’s again! What did you see in Norman anyway? Let me guess…it was the green costume, right? You’ve got a thing for green don’t you? Because it sure can’t be that hair.” 

_Does he ever shut the fuck up?_

Once finally free of the ropes, she turned to face Spider-Man, pulled down the cloth tied over her mouth, spit the packing out and said “All this shit going down and you’re telling stupid green jokes? I’ve heard every fucking one of them!” 

“Wow! Usually damsels in distress are a lot more grateful when the handsome hero comes to their rescue! I’ll bet Kristin would have been nicer, not to mention a hell of a lot lighter to lug around than you! Cute look, though, in an seasick raccoon sort of way,” he said, referencing the contrast between her green upper face and chin and normal skin tones where her gag had been tied. 

“Fuck you!” 

“Holy cow! If Disney ever does R-rated cartoons you’ll be a shoo-in with that mouth! I just should have rolled you out the door without untying you. Look, you know your way, so get out of here and find some cops. We're closest to the Midtown North Precinct, and some have to be at the Times Square Substation. Even if I wanted to leave and let those two looneys kill each other, I can’t chance them doing any collateral damage and taking a chunk of Midtown with them. _Now go_!” 

Spider-Man quickly jumped back onto the third floor, disappearing from sight, and Idina had her first moment of clarity since he pulled her into the rafters. _I did sound like an ungrateful bitch. But dammit, I’ve spent god knows how long bound, gagged, and manhandled and I’ve had enough!_ Full feeling had not yet returned to her hands and feet, and she held onto the railing while walking tentatively down the stairs to the first floor. She could have taken the escalator, but wanted to work her legs after prolonged inactivity.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw the four sets of exit doors, with the banners above collectively reading "YOU ARE NOW LEAVING OZ. REALITY STRAIGHT AHEAD. DRIVE (OR FLY) CAREFULLY.” However, she would have to go through one of the Jackal’s men, who was installing something along the doors. Sensing her approach, he quickly turned in her direction. 

“What the hell are you doing down here?” He asked, moving quickly towards her. 

“Looking for the bathroom?” She said nervously, backing away as the man approached. “Please, don’t hurt me, I just want to go home,” she said in the best “terrified female” voice she could muster. Idina let him jump up the short flight of stairs to get close to her and then quickly jabbed with her right arm, breaking her would-be assailant’s nose. Before he recovered, she delivered a left cross, staggering him. Without wasting a second, she grabbed his hair, held his head down and administered as many knees as possible to his face before exhausting herself. If he wasn’t unconscious, he would be so disoriented he wouldn’t be righting himself for awhile. 

“Bet you didn’t know I box to keep in shape did you, you fucking bastard!?” she yelled as she dropped him on the floor. Her euphoria was short-lived as she staggered and fell, gasping for air and feeling sick. Her right hand and left knee were red and wet with blood. 

_A woman doesn’t live in New York City with only a small child and not learn some things, but sonofabitch that hurt even with the numbness I still have!_ she thought as she shook her hands. She was _really_ going to feel this later. _It doesn’t hurt like this when you’re wearing boxing gloves. And it always looks painless on TV._

She stood and walked haltingly to the box office booth and leaned against the glass as she continued steadying herself. Looking at the exit doors as she caught her breath again, she saw what Warren’s man was doing. She was no expert, but wires and boxes and lights attached to door frames couldn't be good. 

_Oh my god. I know what would have happened if I had tried to get out the doors. "Professor Warren" obviously didn’t want anyone like fire or police coming into the theater – or for anyone to leave._

She looked for phones, fire alarms, anything she could either call from or set off that might create enough noise to get someone’s attention from the outside. But there was nothing, and whatever might have been helpful looked as if it was dismantled or ripped from the walls. The next exit she ran to also had a similar looking device over the door. 

_I’m trapped. We’re all trapped._ She balled her fists and pressed them against her temples, falling to her knees. _What do I do? What do I do? I have family, a son, that depend on me. I’m not a cop or a fucking superhero!_ She had never faced anything like this before. All evening it seemed certain she would die, and she’d almost prepared herself to never see her son or other loved ones again. She remembered telling the crowd at Radio City months ago how there were times she struggled to get out of bed in the morning. Even given her success and fame, she still had moments where her insecurities so gripped her as to render her helpless. But now, she saw how insignificant those issues were compared to the reality confronting her. 

_Whatever he is or what else he has done, Norman came for me. And – **Spider-Man**. Norman must have asked him for help. The man he hates most in the world, the man he blames for his son’s death. And he asked for his help. Spider-Man must hate Norman just as much – and **he doesn’t even know me yet he still came**. What people say about him being a hero – it’s all true._

**_Fuck this_** , she thought and quickly stood, wiping the moisture from her eyes. _I’m not sitting here waiting for the end. I don’t know what I can do, but I don’t do damsel in distress roles. And I’m not abandoning two men risking their lives for me and I’m **not** going out on my knees crying. I’m not playing by the rules of someone else’s game._

_Fuck._

  


  
**To be Continued in Chapter 8 - “Kiss me Goodbye” - Everything literally comes crashing down – buildings, relationships, and people. Plus, Idina gets to defy gravity for real.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know about any martial arts training, but yes, Idina really does box to help her stay in shape, or did, based on an interview for a medical magazine.
> 
> Yet I don’t know she hates it when people quote parts from, or when she herself remembers _Wicked_ lines. That recurring joke was partially inspired by an interview where Kristin Chenoweth stated (in her cute, pixie-ish way) she's about had it with people singing "Popular" to her. But, it leads into the ending I have planned.


	8. Kiss Me Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does a Broadway diva stand a chance of surviving a superhero/supervillain smackdown?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do try to do my research, and I've been to the Gershwin, but clearly there are certain things about the actual layout of the theater, the props of _Wicked_ , police procedures, and the laws of physics, etc., of which I had to take liberties. It wasn’t supposed to be this long, either.

  


Upon leaving Idina, Spider-Man rushed back into the auditorium where the Green Goblin struggled to stand after he was toppled by an explosive embedded under the floor. The Jackal was nowhere in sight.

“Not that I give a shit, but are you alright, Osborn?” 

“An unimaginative, pedestrian trick, an explosive device triggered by pressure,” Osborn muttered, not acknowledging the wall crawler. 

“Well, it knocked _you_ on your unimaginative, pedestrian ass. In fact…” Spider-Man ripped a seat off the floor and tossed it to the other aisle, where upon impact it triggered another explosion. “ _That_ was the one waiting for you if you had zagged. My spider-sense isn’t detecting any others at the moment, but you know Act II is coming.” 

“Where’s Idina?” 

“I deposited her in the second floor lobby and told her to find some cops.” 

“You didn’t take her outside? One of Warren’s men might still be down there! Parker, I promise you….” Before Osborn completed his threat, the Jackal’s voice bellowed throughout the auditorium. 

“You should have minded your knitting, Peter! I only wanted to screw with old Norman this time. You'd've gotten your turn. Really – you don’t show up to class – but you show up to help _him_? Of all people? Your priorities are seriously fucked, son. ” 

“Ohhhhhh, Osbooooorrrrn....” Spider-Man said, feeling that familiar dull buzz in his skull. 

“Your pathetic spider-sense is redundant, Parker. Do you hear those sounds?” 

“I see movement up in the rafters,” Spider-Man pointed upward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were about to be – “ 

At that moment, several – and Spider-Man shook his head - _flying monkeys_ , with sharp claws rather than the usual primate digits, descended upon him and the Goblin. 

“Flying monkeys? Really? He’s taking this _Wicked_ shit far too seriously now!” 

Miles Warren was a master geneticist stilled at conjuring virtually any monstrosity in a lab, more than once creating Spider-Man clones to hellishly impact Peter Parker’s life. As absurd as the concept was (also acknowledging the inherent absurdity of a radioactive spider biting a man and giving him superpowers), marrying primate and bat DNA and mass cloning the original specimen to create the mutations flying their way was Tuesday for Warren. However, Spider-Man knew from prior experience when the Jackal produced large quantities of cloned beings in relatively little time, they were not durable and barely qualified as “living.” Individually they would be easy to defeat and “kill,” degenerating into dust. Collectively and in large enough numbers, however, they still could cut he and Osborn to ribbons. 

  


Determined to do something, _anything_ , if only to warn Spider-Man and Norman that the entire theater was booby trapped, Idina ran up to the fourth floor intending to reach the mezzanine entrance she and Spider-Man exited earlier. However, once within earshot of the entrance she heard screeching and two argumentative voices. Staying incognito, she crept to the opening, and peered into the auditorium. 

_What the - ? Flying monkeys? Seriously? Real? Fucking? Flying? Monkeys?_ The number was indeterminable but it was a swarm with one objective – tearing Norman and Spider-Man apart. 

Spider-Man was a pinball in play, jumping, bouncing, and trying to stay clear of the mutated primates; punching some, latching onto others with his webbing and slamming them against a wall, floor, or ceiling. They turned into dust on impact. The Green Goblin’s gloves emitted some kind of charge through the fingers, incinerating the monkeys it touched. Her final devastating confirmation of Norman Osborn's secret life was seeing the Goblin effortlessly rip seats out of the floor and swing or hurl them at the attackers. She had wanted to believe Professor Warren was simply a madman with a petty, unfounded grudge against Norman over a raw business deal. But there was no doubt Osborn was, and likely always had been, exactly what Warren claimed. And she felt like such a goddamn fool she hadn't seen it earlier. 

_What ARE these people? I’d heard about them and watched video, but never really saw them close up and personal, since I lived mostly in California after getting married. I'd always thought the stories were exaggerated or the product of special effects. But if they're really that powerful - God help the rest of us._

With the noise and chaos it would be impossible to warn them from here about the explosives at the exits, and she certainly couldn’t approach them without literally being torn to pieces. But what could a normal human being do in a grudge match between superhumans? It occurred to her there had to be _something_ useful in the dressing room where she'd been held captive, or in storage, presuming she could break in and gather what she needed fast enough, including a practical pair of shoes. Bare feet worked for concerts, but not for going onto a battlefield, and the stilettos she wore when the evening began weren't going to cut it either. 

Since all of the curtains were up, she saw several set pieces in the stage recesses. One in particular gave her an idea, assuming she could reach it without catching the attention of either the Jackal or the – she shook her head – flying monkeys. While visiting a zoo with Walker, she remembered the cautions about getting too close to the monkeys, that they were attracted to things that shine, smell good, and make noise. _Can’t do anything about smells, but I know something that will be bright and make a lot of damn noise_. 

She remembered from her time on _Wicked_ how some of the props and set pieces worked. One of those was the Wizard head, a large, robotic looking visage with a moving jaw and glowing eyes, attached to a movable platform. The person behind the prop operated it almost as if were a bicycle, as it included handlebars with pull brakes and a foot pedal with a kick drum. The effects included the jaw opening and closing, the eyebrows lifting and dropping, and the eyes swiveling, with accompanying sounds. The actor playing the Wizard would speak into a microphone behind it so the prop operator could coordinate the movement of the head with the actor’s inflection. She doubted the mechanics had changed much, if at all, in the subsequent decade. Fortunately, the head was clearly visible on stage without her having to move it. Hopefully she could use it to distract the monkeys, drawing some of them away from Norman and Spider-Man and bettering their odds. While the two continued to whittle down the number of assailants, she could tell they were wearing down and the monkeys had drawn blood. 

  


Minutes later, Spider-Man noticed the Wizard head and surrounding lights on the platform glowing and making noise. A voice resonated throughout the theater declaring “I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL OZ,” which despite the speaker’s effort to make it sound boisterous and threatening, lacked a certain masculine quality. 

“Is that Idina?” Spider-Man asked as the monkeys began shifting their focus from him and the Goblin to the bright noisemaker on stage. 

Then the voice bellowed “COME AND GET IT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” 

_“That’s_ Idina,“ Osborn smiled. 

“Osborn, if the monkeys congregate, can you…” 

“Ahead of _you_ any day of the week, Parker.” The Goblin had already pulled one of his gloves back, and pressed a number of small buttons on his costume's upper sleeve in a sequence. “Make sure Idina is a safe distance away before I start firing.” 

At that moment, they heard a large explosion from outside the auditorium. 

“Uh - was that your glider, Osborn?” 

"It was cloaked outside awaiting my signal. When it entered the building it must have triggered something.” 

“Every entrance and exit is probably wired to blow.” 

“Wouldn't your goddamn spider-sense have alerted you to any explosives when you slithered into the building?” 

_Not if they weren't armed at the time,_ Spider-Man thought, but the less Osborn knew about how his spider sense worked, the better, since Norman had more than once developed a means to dull that precognitive ability. Frankly, even after all of these years it remained enimatic to him. “I was focused on getting to your girlfriend in time without alerting the Jackal to my presence. Do you think your tinkertoy made it in?” 

“The glider can survive concussive blasts within certain parameters, but I won’t know what shape it's in until I can inspect it.” 

  


Idina knew distracting the monkeys with the Wizard head would put her in the thick of them, so it had to continue to pre-occupy them to let her get away. She tied down the pull brakes and foot pedals to keep the “Wizard” lit and in motion and dashed toward a backstage exit carrying a fire extinguisher and a backpack. Three monkeys noticed her breaking away and flew after her. 

“ _Oh sssshhhhiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttt!!!!!!!_ ” 

Knowing she couldn't outrun them, she turned, dropped her back pack and sprayed them with the fire extinguisher, which she primed before fleeing the Wizard prop. One fell to the floor, and the others stopped and struggled in mid-flight, giving her time to pull out an aerosol can and a cigarette lighter. She began to spray and flicked the lighter. The aerosol from the can ignited and she waved it around trying to keep the monkeys at a distance. Spider-Man swung down and quickly slammed each of them into the floor, causing them to degenerate. 

“You sure as hell don’t listen to instructions do you, Elphie?" Spider-Man asked as he dropped in front of her. "Is that an artiste thing or just you?” 

“Like I’m taking orders from a grown man who goes out in public in red and blue pajamas! And stop calling me Elphie!” After a pause she continued. “Spider-Man, Professor Warren's men wired the exits to blow up if anyone tried to get in or out.” 

"Supervillain Playbook, third edition. Sorry about this but I’m going to do a snatch and grab job on you again.” His arm encircled her waste and he jumped up straight into the rafters. _In one leap_ she marveled, while noticing the tears his costume, exposing several cuts and lacerations. 

“Spider-Man, you’re bleeding!” 

“I heal fast. Not Hugh Jackman-fast, but fast enough.” 

“Why are we up here?” she asked upon landing on a platform. 

“So Norm can do his thing.” 

Looking down upon the stage and auditorium, Idina saw Osborn straddling a large bat-shaped device that he was maneuvering with his legs as it rose in the air. 

“What is that?” she asked incredulously. 

“Wasted genius,” Spider-Man responded, almost sorrowfully. 

Osborn cursed silently as the glider responded sluggishly to his commands. While it survived the explosion when it flew into the theater, a combination of the blast, the concussion wave and impact of the debris had compromised it. He fired two small missiles at the Wizard head, taking out both the prop and a large swath of monkeys, reducing the numbers enough that he could eliminate the rest after switching the glider’s offensive weapon to bullets. 

Suddenly, the buzzing returned in Spider-Man’s skull. “Oh crap, Idina, something’s about to….” Explosions rippled through the rafters, unrelated to any damage resulting from Osborn's glider, as the Jackal was literally bringing the roof down on Spider-Man and Idina. 

“Shit!” Spider-Man yelled as both they and debris fell to the floor. He held onto Idina as they landed, forced her face down onto the ground, and spread his body over hers to shield her from the raining wreckage. She began coughing as she inhaled dust and other particles. _I have a feeling I won't be singing tomorrow night._

After the last of the debris settled on them, Spider-Man asked “You alright?” 

“I think so.” 

“Well, I don’t mind telling you that _I_ feel like shit. I'm going to push upward against whatever's on top of us. Keep your face to the floor, eyes closed and lace your hands behind your head. Even as I throw this stuff off, pieces are still likely to fall on you and you need to protect your head and face. Got it?” 

After communicating her understanding, she heard loud cracking sounds as Spider-Man pushed against the debris. Releasing a couple of ragged breaths and then a pained cry, he reared up and flung off the wreckage weighing on them. But before he could shoot a webline and pull them up and out of the debris field, the Jackal swung a large beam which connected with the back of his head, dropping him. 

_Oh my god, he’s not moving,_ she began to panic. 

“Thank goodness he was distracted or I’d have never been able to sneak up on him like that," the Jackal chortled. "In the middle of one danger he can't always detect a new one." 

Grabbing Idina by the neck, he lifted her and carried her out of the carnage to the recesses of the stage. She began choking as he slowly squeezed her throat. Both of her hands latched onto his fingers in a desperate attempt to remove them, but it was futile. 

“Well, well, well, aren’t _you_ the clever little girl with the whole Wizard head distraction thingy,” he said as she dangled in front of him. "And here I assumed after listening to some of your interviews that intelligence wasn't a pre-requisite to sing on Broadway. OK – so I kidnapped you, tied you up and put you in a diabolical death trap. But, come on! I didn’t make one Adele Dazeem joke the whole night! And you repay me by helping these two clowns? Tell you what, we’ll do one last song before retiring you permanently. Sing with me now, _"I’ll blow the Gershwin up because I am the loudest witch in Oz,_ "" another nod to the Forbidden Broadway _Wickeder_ satire, in which "Idina," within the “Defying Gravity” parody, becomes self-referential regarding her signature belt. 

She was losing consciousness when suddenly, she heard a howl of pain as she was released and fell to the floor. Gasping for air, she saw that the Green Goblin had wrested the Jackal's hand from her throat and slammed him to the ground. Osborn’s mask was still on, and his costume looked worse for wear, with numerous deep gashes and puncture marks, exposing bloodied skin. Even his body armor was unable to completely resist the relentless attacks from the Jackal’s savage biological creations, although overall he appeared in better shape than Spider-Man. 

“Give my regards to the devil, Warren,” the Goblin said as his placed his own hands around the Jackal's throat. 

“Do your worst, Osborn!” his enemy gasped. “Even if you survive tonight, I’ve won. She knows exactly what you are now, so your miserable fucking life will continue to be miserable! Go ahead, kill me! _You’re not the only one who can rise from the dead_!” 

Osborn put his knee on the Jackal’s throat and grabbed his head with both hands. Idina covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream as she watched Osborn literally rip the Jackal’s head from his body. Cognizant of her reaction, he prepared to explain it was the only way to ensure the Jackal stayed dead, that whatever regenerative properties the body had were useless once the head was severed. He had experienced such regeneration first hand after the Goblin Formula healed the massive wound his glider inflicted on his chest during the fight with Spider-Man following Gwen Stacy’s death. But before he got the chance, the Jackal’s body quickly disintegrated into ashes. The Jackal at the Gershwin, or at least _this_ particular Jackal, had not been the real one – only another clone. 

His fists balled, holding a handful of ashes, Osborn lept to his feet screaming “Warren! You coward! Face me!” as he rotated 360 degrees, hoping to see any sign the true Miles Warren was present. The building shook as several explosions ripped through the theater, including every entry and exit point. The mezzanine section collapsed, covering the orchestra seating down to row N and blocking access to the exits. Debris also walled off the fire exits on either side of the stage. 

“Brilliant, Osborn, just brilliant!" Spider-Man exclaimed as he rose and staggered to Norman and Idina's position. "A signal must have linked the detonators to his heart or brain activity. When you killed him, either a signal was transmitted to arm the explosives, or the one preventing them from being armed stopped. It was a suicide clone, never intended to leave here alive! And like the predictable lunatic you are, you did _exactly_ what the Jackal wanted you to do!” 

Idina felt the stage move under her feet, and saw fire raging beyond where the 4th floor/mezzanine doors had been. Smoke poured into the auditorium. Warren had been thorough, disabling all of the sprinklers and other fire suppression systems. 

“This place doesn't have much time left!" Spider-Man exclaimed. "Let’s go, Osborn!” 

But the Goblin didn't move. He stood in place, his back to the wall crawler, still staring at the ashes covering his palms, seething that the pound of flesh he craved was denied him. But there _was_ an alternative. 

Spider-Man tried again. "Osborn - snap out of it!" 

The Goblin turned to face him. “Warren’s gone, Spider-Man, which leaves _you_ and _me_!”

“Norman, NO!” Idina screamed. “We’ve got to get out of here!” 

“Osborn you idiot – it’s over! Warren’s gone if he ever really was here! Only a fool fights in a burning house! We need to get Idina out before we lose the very reason we came here tonight!’” 

“And I want a life with her! I'm moving forward - and there’s no place for you in my new order! _This_ is where I tie up all loose ends and settle all scores, mine – _and my son’s!_ ” 

Between the long skirmish with the monkeys which ripped his costume to shreds and left several bloody gashes, the collapsing rafters and the Jackal’s sneak attack, Spider-Man had already taken a beating and moved too slowly to avoid the Goblin when the latter sprang toward him and forced him to the floor. Osborn stood back up, his left hand holding onto the front of Spider-Man’s costume and the right hand relentlessly pounding the wall crawler. 

Idina was in shock. _He’s insane! He’s totally fucking insane!_ His hate and bloodlust were so overwhelming he cared about nothing else at this moment – including her. 

Although surrounded by debris, Idina knew anything _she_ could pick up and club Osborn with would have zero effect. And she couldn't just tap his shoulder, beg his pardon, and rationally ask him to please stop beating Spider-Man. There was only one thing she could do, and she had to time it perfectly and hope he was so focused on pummeling Spider-Man he wouldn’t notice. Otherwise he could effortlessly swat her away. She carefully approached Osborn from behind, jumped onto his back and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. 

“Norman, stop this!” Her goal _now_ was to find the seam between his mask and tunic. She hoped pulling off his mask would accomplish two things – draw his attention away from Spider-Man, and maybe, just maybe, have the psychological effect of bringing back the human Norman Osborn rather than the monster he had become in costume. Although she failed to remove his mask, her first objective succeeded as he stopped flailing at Spider-Man. Unfortunately, it also resulted in him placing each of her arms in what felt like a crushing vice as he effortlessly pried them off him. She screamed, feeling her arms would literally snap in two. He released one arm and yanked her around to face him. She dangled from his grasp as if she weighed no more than a stuffed animal. 

“Do you want to kill _me_ , too, Norman?” she weakly asked. 

At first she thought he might just do it. She couldn't see his eyes through the opaque lenses, but the Goblin mask's construction and molding to the face of its wearer made plain the rage consuming him. That expression, along with the pointed ears, gave one the impression of looking into the face of the devil. _I’ve never seen anyone look…as if he’s...pure hate, pure evil. Does he even recognize me?_ But after a moment, he gently lowered her to the floor, released her, and pulled off his mask. 

“No,” he answered in a low, pained voice. The devil's face was gone, replaced with a human one genuinely grieved over her condition and his contribution to it. 

Then, a red-gloved hand spun him around, held onto him, and a fist snapped his head around with a hammering right cross. Hearing the impact of the punch alone was painful. A normal human's neck would have cleanly broke or the lower jaw would have separated from the rest of the head, teeth flying across the room. But, neither combatant was anything close to normal. 

“This is for Gwen!” Spider-Man delivered a second blow, and although with notably less force, it still sent Osborn sprawling to the floor as the wall crawler released his grip. “And _that_ was for Harry! _You_ should've given a shit about him when he was alive you hypocritical bastard!” He jumped on the fallen Goblin and began to return the favor of a vicious pummeling. 

Tears flowed down Idina's cheeks as her arms throbbed painfully and were badly bruised where Osborn grabbed her. Her neck and throat were in similar shape after the Jackal put them in his deadly grip, and smoke inhalation exacerbated the problem. The strain in her voice was evident as she screamed at Spider-Man to stop. She had no intention of watching either one kill the other. _I've never seen anything like this before, never seen such intense **hatred** between two people. What could possibly have happened between them?_

“You want to settle the score once and for all, Osborn?" Spider-Man exclaimed. "Then by god we’ll settle it – on **my** terms! And that means no more goddamn Green Goblin – _forever!_ ” 

By now Spider-Man was running on adrenaline alone. His punches no longer had an appreciable impact, and he would last only as long as his emotions would carry him. He clasped his hands together and pounded on Osborn’s chest, leading Idina to remember that moment in the park when Norman touched his chest and told her of his scars. She had no doubt the story behind those scars involved Spider-Man as well. 

“Spider-Man, STOP!” she yelled, dropping to her knees and placing her hand on his shoulder. 

Spider-Man ceased hitting Osborn and sagged. As he spoke, he sounded on the verge of a nervous breakdown, alternating between rage and tears. “You don’t know what he’s done! You don’t know what he’s taken from me!” 

“No, I don’t,” Idina acknowledged, shedding additional tears in response to the torment in Spider-Man’s voice. “And maybe he does deserve this. But my son will ask me what it was like to meet Spider-Man. I don’t want to tell him I saw him kill someone.” 

Osborn was still conscious, but moving very slowly. Spider-Man gently sagged into Idina's arms. She tried to stand and pull him up with her but he was dead weight. He looked at her, noting the green blotches and streaks still marring her face. 

“You need to back to your dressing room and redo your make-up, Elphie,” he said weakly. 

_What the fuck?_ “This place is falling apart around us and you’re being a comedian?” 

“Everyone’s got to make a living.” 

“Can't you be fucking serious? Why the hell do you talk so much? Honestly I’ve _never_ known _anyone_...” she then realized he was playing her. Goading her by calling her “Elphie” and keeping her yelling at him was a tactic to keep himself awake and alert and give his miraculous physiology time to rebound. But the recovery was coming too slowly and he went silent. 

  


Normally, Michelle Charlesworth would have been safely back home in New Jersey with her husband and two children, hours away from starting another day as a reporter for WABC-TV Channel 7's Eyewitness News. However, her vacation began tomorrow and she wanted to tie up a half dozen loose ends before leaving town. Michelle also hosted WABC-TV's special program, Broadway Backstage, which twice yearly featured the upcoming spring and fall theater seasons, usually with a Broadway luminary as co-host. So, when the police scanner screamed with reports of a "massive fire" at the Gershwin Theatre, and calls to several units and fire trucks, it didn't take ten minutes for her to find a cameraman and driver, report to the station manager to arrange for breaking live coverage, inform her husband she'd be home even later than planned, and be on the road. WABC was on West 66th Street, a block from Central Park, so it wouldn't take long to reach the Gershwin's 51st Street address. 

She and the cameraman abandoned the van at 54th and Eighth Avenue as clogged automobile and pedestrian traffic halted their forward progress, and the police were cordoning off the area between Seventh and Eighth Avenues from 49th to 52nd Streets. Their press credentials got them to the intersection of 51st and Eighth, close enough to relay the evening's action to the home audience. The glass windows on all four floors of the Paramount Plaza tower housing the theater were blown out and flames were licking the sides of the building. The street level revolving doors were engulfed, as smoke, looking to escape, flowed up each side of the concrete block housing the parking garage. Fire consumed the opposite side where the garage offices were located and the garage roof was also ablaze. Trucks sprayed water onto the roof and into the lower level trying to contain the inferno. It was apparent with the number of distinct fires, and the fact all ten pillars supporting the parking garage were now heaps of rubble, that this was not random. Someone was deliberately trying to obliterate the Gershwin, and would succeed. She scrambled to collect as much information as possible from law enforcement surrounding the scene, and the details became more horrific by the minute. Michelle planted herself, took a deep breath and waited for her cameraman’s signal to inform her she was on the air. 

“Thank you, Sade,” she responded to the anchor introducing her. “As you can see, one of the Theater District’s most beloved sites, the Gershwin Theatre, home of the smash long-running musical _Wicked_ is in flames due to what police are already saying is a deliberate act of destruction. According to a witness escaping the building, the perpetrator is none other than the _Green Goblin_ , one of New York’s oldest and most notorious supervillains and long-time rival of one of its most controversial superheroes, Spider-Man.” 

“Michelle,” the anchor interrupted. “Is the Goblin still believed to be in the building? Is anyone trapped inside? And if the Goblin is there, does that also mean _Spider-Man_ is there as well? What else has this witness said?” 

“Apparently not much because he quickly disappeared in the chaos and police are still trying to locate him. He claimed the Goblin came into the building, murdered the entire maintenance crew and security staff and rigged the building to implode. The Goblin is still believed to be in there, but no word on Spider-Man or anyone else. Police are taking positions around the building as I’ve been told that if the Goblin appears, deadly force is authorized.” 

  


  
Still standing, trying to support Spider-Man's weight as he recovered, Idina watched Norman slowly pull himself off the floor and stagger toward her. His eyes were distant, vacant, his face bruised and swelling from the web slinger's attack. 

“Norman, I don’t think we can get out of here on foot. We need you to get us out of here on your – whatever that thing is.” 

Osborn continued acting listless and unresponsive. 

“Goddammit Norman! We’re all going to die here!” Was the man she once knew even in there any longer? 

Reacting to Idina's anger, Norman's head snapped to attention and focus returned to his eyes. He quickly looked around to assess the situation and signaled for the glider, which was not within sight. For a second, Osborn appeared visibly concerned and a lump developed in Idina's throat as there was no doubt what _that_ look meant. They both sighed with relief when the glider rose out of a debris field and coasted toward Osborn. He looked at Idina and extended his hand to her. 

“Idina, come with me – we’ll get out of here on the glider, together. You and I.” 

“We’re _not_ leaving Spider-Man!” 

“Don’t be a fool, woman! He doesn’t deserve your compassion! You have no idea how many lives he’s ruined – how much grief he’s brought to those around him. You don’t know what kind of monster he is! _He killed my son!_ ” 

“There’s only one monster here, Norman - and it’s not Spider-Man! _You’re_ responsible for the man your son turned out to be! Spider-Man was only there when it was time to pick up the pieces!” Idina was aware she had neither the knowledge nor experience to state that as boldly as she did, but she had no doubt it was true. Something about Spider-Man's earlier reference to Harry stuck with her. His rage at Osborn was laced with genuine anguish - almost as if... 

Then she saw it again. The look. The face of complete and total psychosis. 

_I fucked up. He’s going to leave us behind._

Norman pressed his hands against his temples. “Get out of my head,” he said, and then an exasperated “why can’t I have this?” 

_He’s gone completely, totally, batshit crazy. He probably always was. How could I have missed it?_

The Gershwin in its death throes reminded her of the stories of _Gehenna_ , described by the Rabbis as a place of fire, brimstone and darkness where souls were punished until they were purified, somewhat analagous to the Christian Hell. The smoke continued thickening and she coughed more frequently as her lungs began starving for oxygen. The heat from the approaching fires soaked her in sweat.

In the interim, Norman and his glider had vanished. After accusing him of destroying his own son, this was her punishment, to die in this inferno. She thought she heard additional explosions but dismissed them. It didn't matter anymore. It wasn't going to be long now. 

She slowly dropped to her knees, still holding onto Spider-Man who had not revived, and closed her eyes as she tried reliving the treasured moments in her life, and images of the people she loved. _Walker, my beautiful boy._ He would never know the exact circumstances of his mother's death, the sacrifice she made, that as desperate as she was to escape, she couldn't leave a man to die, who was there that night only because _he_ had come to save _her_. _Of all the scenarios I imagined myself dying...I never thought it would be like this._ Her mind returned to her son, as she was determined her last thoughts were going to be of him. 

  


Occassionally glancing back at the burning Gershwin, Michelle nodded as she listened to the instructions coming from station in her earpiece. She would be going back on the air very shortly. After hearing a loud explosion she saw chunks of cement spray into the air as a large hole appeared in the wall of the parking garage, evacuating smoke from the inside. It might have occurred simply as a result of the forces of destruction set in motion earlier. Then again, maybe not. Several police officers went down on one knee, collectively raising their weapons in the direction of the new opening. 

"Get back here! Get back here!" she screamed at the studio. 

  


A whistling noise like an aircraft coming in to land snapped her from her presumptive dying thoughts to the present reality, and she saw Norman Osborn and the glider gently drop to the floor near her. He stepped off and hurridly walked toward her. 

“Where did you go?” she asked. 

“I had to clear a direct way out. The glider’s damaged and low on power and I can't summon another one. Either deliberately on Warren's part or due to a confluence of events I can't get a signal to one of my safe houses. I couldn’t waste time flying around looking for a viable exit – so I made one through the parking garage. I didn’t want you on the glider with me because you’d have been in danger from the debris generated when I blasted holes in the wall.” 

“I thought you had left us.” 

“I would never have left _you_ , Idina. _**Never!**_ ” 

“Spider-Man comes too!” 

Osborn hesitated, but wasn’t going to argue with her now, as he saw her grip on Spider-Man tighten. Leaving Spider-Man to die would resolve so many problems. But that wasn't what Idina wanted. And Osborn's judgment was uncertain when it came to what Idina wanted.

He sighed, grabbed them both, pulled the wall crawler from her grasp and dropped him between his legs onto the base of the glider. He placed Idina behind him and slid his boots into the stirrups. 

“He’ll fall off!” 

“He’ll be fine. He sticks to things. Put your arms around my waist as if you were riding on the back of a motorcycle with me and _hold on_. Don’t worry about how tight or how much force you use, you can’t hurt me. ” 

The glider slowly rose off the floor. Osborn pulled what appeared to be an IPAD from a satchel slung over his shoulder. He studied the PAD closely, his fingers moving over it. She shuddered as they continued to rise. This was more unnerving than going up in the crane during “Defying Gravity.” At least on that thing she was securely in place in a bucket. 

“One of the fuel cells is nonresponsive, and the other is almost drained. The glider's been hammered by debris and multiple explosions. I anticipated a firefight coming into this and brought one with extra artillery, which weighed it down even more, taxing the fuel supply. And now the damn cloak isn't responding either. It’s going to be a rough ride.” 

“Where the hell did you get this thing?” 

Osborn response suggested he was offended she asked. “I designed and built it myself.” 

_My god, if you can do this, Norman – then why the hell are you….doing the crazy things you’re doing?_ He pulled his Goblin mask over his head, obviously to conceal his identity as he prepared to fly out of the building. 

"Idina - hold onto me as if your life depends on it. Because it does." 

  


"Get that camera off me and stay on that hole in the wall!" Michelle shouted to her cameraman as they returned to a live feed. "I think something's about to -" 

As if prompted by her declaration, a figure straddling a bat shaped metal platform emerged from the newly created orafice and climbed rapidly into the air. As she looked up and followed it with her eyes, several shots rang out as the police desperately tried to bring down its pilot. She thought she heard a scream, blinked her eyes and saw it. 

_Oh my god, someone's on there with him!_

Her attention quickly returned to the Gershwin as she heard a loud crash. The parking garage's roof had collapsed. With its collective weight falling onto the floor, and with the lack of support for the entire structure, the walls buckled and cracked as everyone close scampered further away to avoid the debris when the whole thing finally came down. 

  


Idina screamed as she felt sharp stings in her thigh and arm and grew dizzy. She’d never had an experience to compare this with, but if she didn’t know better - _oh my fucking - I've been shot!_. 

“ _Bastards!_ ” Osborn yelled, now regretting he had jettisoned the glider's remaining payload inside the Gershwin. 

As he felt her grip loosen, he put an arm around her waist and looked to see how badly she had been hurt as the glider sped from the battle zone. Fortunately, the shots ripped through the outer skin layers as opposed to blast holes in her arm and thigh, or lodging within her body. Nonetheless, they were still areas of major arteries and other important rotary functions. She was bleeding badly and needed immediate medical attention. The first necessity was to dispatch any unnecessary weight, so he discarded a reviving Spider-Man, tossing him onto the roof of a building and continued through the air. He steered the glider with his legs and feet, as the bottoms of his boots were magnetized on contact upon placing them into the stirrups. After negotiating through the canyons of Midtown Manhattan, he exited at Seventh Avenue where he had a clearer line of vision and started to fly north. 

The closest hospital to the Gershwin was Mt. Sinai-Roosevelt between Ninth and Tenth Avenues and 58th and 59th Streets, but the glider had already passed over Carnegie Hall and turning back would probably use more fuel _and_ bring him back into the line of fire. After settling on Lenox Hill Hospital, east of Central Park he heard the unwelcome sounds of the gyros sputtering. They would have to abandon the glider before it crashed to the ground. While he would walk away from any such crash, Idina was another matter, no matter how he tried shielding her. Somewhere in Central Park, preferably water, would be "softer," which was relative, but better than landing on concrete, asphalt, or steel. Model Boat Pond wasn't an option due to its lack of depth and a concrete bottom, so that left only one choice.

The glider descended over the Bethesda Fountain and Terrace with the objective of reaching Central Park Lake. He de-magnetized his boots allowing him to separate from the platform and encircled Idina as much as possible with his body before they hit the water. 

By that time, Spider-Man had revived and arrived at the Terrace, lept over the wall, and ran past the Fountain to the steps leading into the Lake, focusing on the disturbance in the water where the glider went down. 

_**“OSBORN!”**_ There was a frightful moment where Spider-Man wondered if anyone was coming back up. Then he saw a moving head, followed by a soaking wet Green Goblin who was cradling Idina as he approached the terrace and staggered out of the water. 

“Idina…” Norman said, almost desperately. Pulling off his mask, he dropped to his knees, and placed her on the ground on her left side, which had not been injured by police fire. He then slapped her back, forcing her to expunge any ingested water. Spider-Man also knelt beside her, opposite Osborn, studying her condition. 

“I can't tell how much blood she's lost, but I'm sure she can't afford to lose any more.” He sprayed webbing onto the wounds to arrest the bleeding. “She still could have internal injuries or broken bones. Your body absorbed the brunt of the impact, but she was a rapidly moving object when you hit the water and then the bottom of the lake. A normal human body will still feel like it slammed into a wall. Lenox Hill is nearby – I’ll take her there.” 

“No!” Osborn shouted as he grabbed Spider-Man’s arm. “I’ll do it!” The wall crawler immediately slapped Osborn’s hand away. 

“Take your murdering hands off me, you bastard! You may be as strong as me but I’m a lot faster on my feet and can get her there quicker. Besides, the _Green Goblin_ running through the streets is likely to invite a hell of a lot more attention from the police, including the possibility of getting shot at again. Do you want to take that risk? Or do you want to fight over it and let her die right here with all of New York pulling up a chair to watch?” he asked, motioning to the approaching news helicopters. 

Norman's resigned expression told Spider-Man he would receive no further disagreement. Even when not the Goblin, Norman Osborn was a robust, out-sized personality whose eyes were always on fire - usually stoked by anger, hate, and outright insanity, yet vital. But this was the first time Peter could remember seeing a sad, tired old man. “Just a moment,” Osborn said quietly. He gently lifted Idina's head and torso and cradled her, stroking her wet, dark hair while softly whispering.

" _Somehow I've fallen under your spell. And somehow I'm feeling...it's up that I fell._ "

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead and embraced her. 

“I so wanted to tell you… just how much...” He sighed heavily, picked her up, and handed her over to Spider-Man, along with whatever fragile hope he had of regaining something long denied him. 

“Take care of her, Peter.” It was unusual for Spider-Man to hear Norman use his name without malice or ridicule. Osborn donned his mask and quickly disappeared into the thick of the park. 

With Idina in his arms, Spider-Man sprinted along the path behind the Alice in Wonderland statue, through the Children’s Gate Entrance of Central Park and onto Fifth Avenue. 

“Stay with me, Idina. I heard enough back there in the theater. I know what you risked sticking your neck out for me." _If I remember, Lenox Hill’s emergency room entrance is on the 77th Street side of the building_ , Spider-Man thought. _Assuming **I** make it. I’m a tap on the shoulder from going down again._ After years of delivering wounded people to hospitals all over the city, he had the addresses of most committed to memory. He decided it would be quicker and easier on Idina to simply run down the streets and sidewalks than try any web slinging theatrics or running along the sides of buildings. 

“Step aside, step aside! Broadway Diva coming through!” Spider-Man yelled. Being New York City, even this late at night the streets and sidewalks were populated by drivers and pedestrians who needed fair warning that a colorfully dressed superhero with a fair damsel was bearing down on them. 

Idina was vaguely aware of the twists and turns as Spider-Man ran through the streets, leaping over cars and other obstacles. She heard him talking to her, telling her hold on for Walker, and other things, some of them actually nice, and then something really stupid. But that's what a girl got from a night out with Spider-Man, she supposed. As it did back at the Gershwin, her mind raced through images of the people she loved, highlights and lowlights of her life, with her final thoughts settling on Walker. She was so sorry she was going to miss... 

Then the lights went out. 

  


  
**Should I continue to Chapter 9? Do I dare end it here?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michelle Charlesworth is real, as is her job at Channel 7 and her background.


	9. When Reality Sets Back in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina’s road to recovery begins, but there are more than the physical injuries to overcome. And one haunting question above all others remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we’re back. I didn’t think I could kill off Idina.

  


“Nobody took any pictures did they?” 

Other than asking _that_ upon awakening, and asking about Walker, she said very little her first day in the hospital, drifting in and out of sleep as her medications were adjusted to control the pain while allowing her to maintain some semblance of consciousness. During a rare lucid moment her doctor detailed the extent of her injuries and remedies. Initially, she found it difficult to grasp “lucky” meant she would “only” use a sling and cane (or walker) for “a few weeks.” When she learned what _could_ have happened had any of the bullets actually struck bone, or caused serious neurological damage - “lucky” worked. She'd never view shoot-outs on cop shows through the same lens again. Her arms and neck were severely bruised, her fingers were swollen from her foray into bare knuckled pugilism, her wrists, ankles, and thighs had ligature marks, and she had innumerable cuts and scratches, BUT she had not suffered any broken bones or internal injuries. She would likely spend at least a week, perhaps longer, in the hospital, with a rehabilitation period thereafter. Nothing insurmountable given time, but she definitely would be off the stage, literally and metaphorically, for awhile. 

Between news reports, hospital staff, and her own vague recollections she pieced together most of what happened after she was shot, an event which understandably resulted in a lack of focus. The Green Goblin shielded her from catastrophic injury when his glider crashed in the park, and Spider-Man took her to the hospital on foot after spraying web fluid on her wounds. 

“All anyone knew at first was there appeared to be a woman with the Green Goblin on his glider, and Spider-Man ran out of the park carrying a woman down 77th. No one knew it you until he got to the emergency room and told everyone who you were,” a nurse informed her. “It wasn't immediately obvious because you looked pretty beat up when you came in. Eventually the news leaked and the media went nuts.” 

The nurse wasn’t exaggerating. But the broadcast media reaction was nothing compared to the social media firestorm, particularly among the Fanzels. Her website, Facebook, Twitter, the _If/Then_ website and Twitter, the _Wicked_ and Gershwin Theatre sites, and the Broadway World Message Board all crashed more than once during that initial 24-hour period. The Twitters of her ex-husband, and her cast mates past and present also lit up with several variations of "Did you hear what happened to Idina?" followed by persistent "Have you seen her yet?" and "Do you know how she's doing?" 

Lenox Hill had not seen such frenzy and heightened security since Beyonce gave birth there a few years ago. The doctors held a press conference to assure Idina's injuries were not life-threatening, but she would need time and _privacy_ to heal. She herself made clear she would NOT hold ANY press conferences, give any interviews, nor communicate to the media except through her managers for the near future. The absolute _last_ thing she wanted to do was recount the events at the Gershwin and why she was there in the first place, a true Pandora’s Box best left unopened. Her social media manager regularly updated her Twitter and Facebook accounts with progress reports to avoid fan panic attacks until she felt like getting back on the grid herself. 

Taye and Walker immediately flew in from Los Angeles upon the news, and this time Taye didn’t generate a bigger fuss than her at the hospital. Her cast mates and friends were told that other than immediate family and one of her managers, no one would be allowed to visit until first SHIELD, and then the police had taken statements from her. 

Not unexpectedly, Norman Osborn considered himself exempt from the rules governing others, and was at her side as she woke on the second day. She wasn't going to ask how he got there. 

His presence deeply conflicted her. He loved her enough to not only risk his own life, but humbled himself by asking the help of his most hated enemy. Yet she now knew regardless of how he attempted to frame his actions, he was no confused, morally compromised man driven by circumstance to take questionable actions. No, there was an unmistakeable _evil_ to Norman Osborn. He was a man whose relationship with others, and probably society as a whole, was so toxic that in the end, there could only be one outcome to his story – destruction. He would either destroy society because it failed to conform to his expectations, society would be forced to destroy _him_ to protect itself, or he would simply destroy himself in any one of his mad schemes. There were no happy endings in Norman Osborn’s future - or in the future of anyone close to him. 

“How do you feel, Idina?” he asked as he stood by her head, looking down upon her. At first she wondered why he was wearing dark glasses _indoors_ , but then after noticing swelling in his face, she knew the answer. 

She motioned to the water tumbler on the arm of her bed. Osborn slid the arm over as she adjusted her mattress so the head rose to allow her to sit up comfortably. After taking a quick sip of water, she spoke. 

“So, I take it the Green Goblin is exempt from following hospital visiting restrictions?” she asked weakly, gradually becoming coherent, although her voice was still strained. She shouldn't have been talking at all, but this conversation couldn't wait. “Does SHIELD or the police know you’re here? Don't I have a guard at my door? Unless you zapped him with one of your fingers." 

Osborn’s face hardened from one of concern to pique. Unlike prior meetings where he was amused and entertained by her impertinence, this time he was not at all pleased she initiated the conversation by referencing his dual identity. 

_Well, fuck him._

“I’m not feeling much of anything right now thanks to the drug cocktails they’re giving me,” she continued. “Come back when they start to wear off for some real fireworks. You, on the other hand, don't look too bad.” _Considering you and Spider-Man beat the shit out of each other less than 48 hours ago_. At this point after a brutal beating, a normal person’s face would still be severely swollen, eyes barely open, with lips resembling a Mick Jagger cartoon parody and enough stitches to audition for a role as Frankenstein’s Monster. But then again, as she had discovered, Norman Osborn was not a normal person. He removed his glasses, revealing bruising around the eyes in addition to the swelling she noted earlier. His lower lip looked like he had been involved in a schoolyard brawl, and he occassionally winced as he moved. Even a superhuman body subjected to a vicious assault by dozens of razor clawed flying monkeys, an ass-whoopin' from another superhuman, as well as falling off a rocket into a body of water was liable to be a little worse for wear. 

“I heal quickly. You should have seen me yesterday morning.” 

“Hmmph,” she grumbled. “Maybe I should take some of what made you what you are. Bet I’d be up and about in no time.” 

“It actually put me _in_ the hospital when it first happened. But I wanted you to know I’ve made arrangements that any hospital and continuing rehabilitation care not covered by your insurance will be paid by me.” 

“That’s quite generous. Are you sure you want to do that? You might want to wait until you hear what I have to say.” 

“Considering I feel a certain amount of culpability for your condition, it is my obligation – regardless of – whatever happens.” 

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth…but I’m surprised to see you, Norman.” 

“I _wanted_ to see you. I _had_ to see you. Idina, I… care a great deal about you. I thought that much would be obvious.” 

“Well, in case you're wondering, you don't have to worry about me spilling any of your secrets. After all, what the hell could I prove? And I don’t think it would accomplish a goddamn thing. You’ve obviously lied your way out of worse.” 

Osborn was now clearly distressed at the conversation's direction. “Idina, please believe me. You and those you love have _nothing_ to fear from me. I never, _ever_ wanted any harm to befall you. You don’t know how terribly…“ 

“Oh, fuck it, Norman,” and her eyes began tearing. “I'm grateful for what you did the other night, I really am. But, it just made me realize how much I don’t know about you, and to be honest, I don’t know that I _want_ to know any more than I already do.” 

“Idina – what I’ve done – I told you – this isn’t a nice, or safe world. We aren’t given the luxury of …..” 

“ _ **STOP!**_ I don’t want to hear any more of your fucking rationalizations! Let's not even talk about how many people you've probably killed or the other horrible things you've done. Let’s just talk person to person rather than person to – whatever you really are. After the events of the last year, I have _serious_ trust issues. And regardless of what promises you might make now - _I can’t trust you! I could **never, ever** trust you again!_ You fucking lied _to my face_! Every day I would worry about what other skeleton would come out of your closet, what other enemy would want a pound of flesh from you and those around you. And what would happen when I really pissed you off, which is inevitable in a relationship? Would you have a temper tantrum and storm out until you calmed down, and come back with flowers in a lame apology attempt, like normal people? Or would you become that ... _monster_ I saw at the Gershwin, the monster that comes out when you don’t get your way? I won’t live under that cloud and I won’t subject my son to it. It’s over, Norman, and I don’t think I even had to say it.” 

Osborn bowed his head and after 30 seconds of uncomfortable silence, slowly moved toward the door. 

“But can you tell me one thing, Norman?” 

He stopped and turned to face her. “What?” 

“Who was Gwen Stacy?” 

His quick response told her that this time at least, she was receiving an honest answer from him. That is, honesty as _he_ perceived it. 

“No one of any consequence.” 

“Good-bye, Norman,” she said, turning her gaze to the television hanging from the ceiling directly in front of her bed. Although he wasn’t in her direct line of vision, she could still see the sadness on his face before he walked out the door. "You could have been a great man, you know.” He stopped for a moment, his back still to her, but then left quietly, without looking at her again. If her last line registered with him at all, she would never know it. 

After Osborn walked out of Idina’s room and down the hallway, he locked gazes with a slender, middle-aged man leaning against the wall. 

“How'd it go, Osborn?” the man asked with a knowing smirk. 

“Go fuck yourself, Coulson,” Osborn replied and continued walking. 

  


Thirty minutes after Norman left, the SHIELD people introduced themselves. _No good can come of this_ she thought, becoming very nervous. Whatever SHIELD itself was, it was murky to her. The best she could deduce was that it was a spy agency dealing with things involving the super people. She wasn’t up for an interrogation, worried that right after telling Osborn his secrets were safe, they’d hypnotize or torture or inject her with something, and she’d spill everything with God knows what consequences. Multiple scenarios came to mind, such as Norman taking revenge, or she and Walker going into Witness Protection, which would effectively end her life as she had known it, being on Court TV every day giving some kind of testimony, even facing arrest herself. Idina protested SHIELD’s presence, demanding that her lawyer, who had also arrived, accompany her during the interview. The lead agent, Coulson, was pleasant enough, but stated she did not have that right in this situation. The document he handed Idina’s lawyer must have been enough to convince even her of the validity of his claim and she left to wait outside the room. 

“I had a lot of volunteers to accompany me, but Maria," he motioned to the dark haired woman behind him standing at the door, which was closed “...pulled rank. You have a lot of fans in SHIELD, Ms. Menzel.” 

“I’m flattered,” Idina responded sarcastically. “If I sign CDs for everyone in the agency, will you people go away? Maybe a benefit concert? You probably need some new pens or shoe bottoms you can talk into, right?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Coulson replied as he sat down in the chair next to Idina’s bed. “Maria” continued standing near the door, silent, watching the unfolding interview. “Heard you had an exciting night at the Gershwin.” 

From the beginning, it was obvious Coulson knew much more about Norman Osborn, Miles Warren, Spider-Man and whatever bound the three together than he was willing to tell her. He tried to get her to place Osborn at the Gershwin that night, but Idina persisted in her story she had seen only the Green Goblin, the Jackal and Spider-Man. She rationalized that it wasn't a total lie. The Norman Osborn she had known these last several weeks was not at the Gershwin that night. Only a monster called the Green Goblin. She fell unconscious in the limo on her way to meet Norman. When she revived she was tied up in a dressing room at the Gershwin. The Jackal, the Goblin and Spider-Man fought. There were flying monkeys and explosions. She had no idea why the Jackal kidnapped her, unless he was really sick of _Let It Go_. The Goblin was flying her out on his glider when she was shot, and everything went dark after that. 

“Spider-Man credits your presence there for saving _his_ life.” Coulson noted. “There must be an interesting story behind that.” 

“Spider-Man says a lot of things. I wouldn’t take many of them too seriously if I were you.” 

“Oh, trust me – I know _exactly_ how to take Spider-Man,” Coulson responded. “I actually think he’s funny.” 

“I don’t,” Maria interjected. 

“Spider-Man’s humor must be like a Three Stooges thing,” Coulson said. “Men seem to like it, women are less than impressed. Why was the Green Goblin flying you out on his glider? Was he trying to kidnap you?” 

“Maybe he’s a fan. Surely you people could get a warrant for his I-Tunes purchases and find out.” 

She was perceptive enough to see Coulson believed little of her version of the events. He was too calm and reasonable, and provided little challenge to her statements, which led her to suspect another agenda at work. He likely already knew much of what happened, and if SHIELD knew Osborn was the Goblin, among other things, they certainly didn’t need a statement from her. She began to believe his real motive was to evaluate just how much _she_ knew about the principals involved, and whether she was likely to disclose any of that information to the police, or the public. Apparently he became satisfied the answers were (1) almost everything and (2) not a damn thing. Interestingly, SHIELD took its own blood sample from her, for reasons they refused to discuss. 

“Don’t you need a warrant to do that?” she asked. 

“No,” Coulson replied as Maria drew the sample. “But you knew that before asking.” 

As Maria left the room, Coulson followed her until he reached the door, then turned to Idina. 

“We’ll be watching your recovery and return to your career with considerable interest Ms. Menzel,” he said, then left. 

_Well. Shit._

Coulson just confirmed her suspicions. _The Jackal did say I was a lousy actress._ “Now you know that we know that you know” was the message. "And now you also know we’ll be watching you to make sure you don't fuck anything up.” She knew the interview had gone too smoothly, as not once did they threaten to pull out her fingernails. It wasn’t an interview as much as it was a subtle warning. "You’re in over your head in our world. Don’t make us come back.” 

Outing Osborn was never an option to her. She had no proof other than what she saw, which wouldn't likely hold up in court without corroboration. She felt guilty, knowing how dangerous he was and the harm he could cause. But, it was apparent people more important and more powerful than her knew the truth. Maybe there were good reasons for their silence. For example, Spider-Man knew, and Norman likely knew who _he_ was, so they were keeping each others' secrets. But, maybe there weren’t any _good_ reasons. Perhaps Norman either knew too much about someone or something, or was a pawn in someone else's grandiose plan. The latter, if true, was more frightening than him being a lone lunatic wearing a Halloween costume. It was easy to rationalize that it was in her and her family’s best interest to keep quiet. Even in America, people disappear if they know too much. 

The police were much easier. Her lawyer was present, and the police were overly deferential, clearly concerned she might file a lawsuit against the department and city for injuring her while shooting indiscriminately at the Goblin. "Public Relations Disaster" wouldn't begin to describe it. Fortunately, she could play the empty-headed diva quite well, convincing them with the same story she gave Agent Coulson. She had few worries Spider-Man, the Goblin, or the Jackal (assuming he was still alive) would make public statements contradicting her. 

But the police left her with one little chill down her spine. Had she recently had contact with any of her stalkers? Because they seem to have disappeared. 

_Norman’s parting gift._

  


For the next several days, crowds gathered around the hospital within view of her window (how they found out where she was in the building was a mystery - but never underestimate fandom's ability to find out anything). Many people carried placards with get-well messages and other means of encouragement, and parts of the crowd would occasionally serenade her with one of her signature songs. Flowers, candy, and other gifts piled up, so she and her managers devised a plan for their re-distribution to other patients, visiting families, nursing homes, and organizations that could make more timely use of them. When she felt well enough she would come to the window and wave at least once a day. When deemed ready for release, she was discharged in the middle of the night and quietly spirited to her apartment before the world discovered she had left ( _that_ fortunately, was able to remain a secret). She was ordered to stay off the stage and spend her remaining recuperative period resting at home with the exception of physical therapy visits and other follow-up appointments. 

For the first time since its 2003 opening, Broadway went for more than a week without a performance of _Wicked_. The Gershwin was a broken, burned out husk, and would likely take longer to rebuild than necessary, more a victim of New York City bureaucratic red tape, legal recriminations and recalcitrant insurance companies than actual construction issues. However, Wicked LLC was prepared, pulling in props and costumes from storage facilities and other tours, and taking over another, albeit smaller venue until the larger Lyric Theatre, the only other theater in New York City comparable in size to the Gershwin, became available. Before long Glinda was descending in her bubble and Elphaba was defying gravity – as well as falling through the trap door. The production was more modest than before, but it wasn’t really putting on a flashy show for a big crowd that mattered – it was simply putting on the show _at all_ , recognizing that even in disaster, the show, and life, continues. Still, so much Broadway history was lost when the Hall of Fame went down with the theater. 

On the home front, Walker begged Mom and Dad for a Spider-Man costume (he got more than one, including the black suit version), along with t-shirts and pajamas, and for awhile seldom wore anything else. And while her own celebrity failed to impress him or his schoolmates - the fact she spent time with Spider-Man - _that_ was cool. 

Other than her therapist, only Cara received a relatively close version of the truth, but Idina still withheld several details and obscured others, fearful of burdening her sister with too much knowledge of that horrible night. She agonized how she could have been fooled, even temporarily, by Norman Osborn, previously believing she was too street smart to be taken in by a psychopath, albeit a charming and deceptive one. 

And Spider-Man? For some reason she couldn’t get him out of her head. She _thought_ she might have heard either the Jackal or Osborn refer to him by either his true name that night, but wasn't certain. Even so, whatever she heard would likely be common in a metropolitan area the size of New York. Besides, it wasn't important for her to know who Spider-Man was. The web slinger actually sent a card to her fan mail address, and it was obvious it came from him. It was a Halloween-themed card with an ugly green witch, and scrawled within: “ _Thanks for the assist. I know a guy who can create some pretty spiffy superhero costumes if you’re interested. The hard part will be working on a good name. How about “Ditzy Diva” or “Broadway Badass?” or maybe even "Princess Pottymouth"? “Wicked Witch” is PERFECT for you given your personality, but that’s already taken._ ” 

She’d heard he was obnoxious, but one had to experience it to appreciate it. Maybe Tony Stark sometimes behaved as if he were 12 years old, but if not for the height and deeper voice she’d guess Spider-Man WAS 12 years old. 

_What a strange, strange man he must be. Or, ironically, is he ordinary and boring as dirt under the mask? Then again, we're all strange in some way. All of us put on a mask when we go out into the world, to keep it from finding out how weak and frightened we truly are_. 

She drifted off to sleep again, thinking of silly men in silly costumes. 

  


As Norman Osborn passed his administrative assistant’s desk, she observed subtle differences in his appearance and manner that would go unnoticed by those not as familiar with him. He was typically dapper and robust, so the swelling in his face, the dark glasses obviously hiding something, and the slower and slightly hobbled gait stuck out. 

“Mr. Osborn – are you alright?” she asked as he reached his inner office doors. He stopped and turned around. 

“And just what makes you think I’m not?” he responded in a tone shutting down the inquiry. 

“Oh...well, right now, you have a 9 am and a…” 

“Reschedule them – I don’t care who they’re with or when you reschedule them - just get _everything_ off my calendar today. And then you can sit there and scratch your ass all day, because I’m not taking any calls, messages, or visitors, and I don’t want to be bothered even if the goddamn building is on fire.” 

“What shall I tell your appointments?” 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you tell them,” he replied as he entered his office and the doors closed behind him. 

_Bastard. If I didn’t need this job I’d set the building on fire myself._

Osborn sat behind his desk and quickly scanned news feeds and highlights from his security cameras. He pulled out the Wicked Witch doll the Jackal had sent and crushed it within his hand, angrily throwing the pieces across the room. He continued studying, then input certain variables and awaited the results: 

_Targets identified_. 

He stood and walked to the window immediately behind the desk and looked out over the city, hands clasped behind his back. 

_If I am to be miserable, it would be selfish to keep the misery to myself. Why not share it with such a deserving world?_

_And if the world will not let me have what I want, then I shall simply have to reshape it until it does._

_So much chaos. So much inequity. So much uncertainty._

_Starting soon, I will bring - order._

Rather than his own face reflecting back at him in the glass, it was the Green Goblin with a large smile. 

“Welcome back, Norman,” the Goblin said. “It’s good to have you home.” 

  


Against the advice of some, and to the surprise of many, Idina returned to _If/Then_ while still recovering. In her initial appearances she struggled while using a cane, sat out the matinees of two-show days, and didn't stage door. Originally, the last damn thing she wanted was for people to see her limping around, and then start feeling sorry for her, but she could no longer endure the confinement and inactivity. “Yes, I am lucky to be alive,” she said in an interview. “But there are two things I must do to _feel_ alive – number one is spend time with my son and family, and number two is perform for an audience, particularly with a cast that has come to mean so much to me.” 

_Wish I was as professional and noble as I sounded. There's probably no need to tell the world that not only am I going out of my fucking mind, but I'm driving everyone who has to put up with me so batshit crazy they're ready to throw me out a window if I don't get off my ass and start doing the show again._ Her return also ensured the show stayed open rather than closing prematurely, thereby keeping the remainder of the cast and crew employed for another few months. Besides, it was essential to return to the life she had _before_ the madness started, and _If/Then_ was an important part of that life. 

However, her perspective was irrevocably altered on many things. Being a native New Yorker, as well as a celebrity with an extremely passionate, sometimes unnervingly so, fan base, she was always aware of her vulnerability and the need to compensate for it without rendering her completely inaccessible. But she was damned if what happened to her was going to happen again. Although she was already taking boxing lessons, she added martial arts training to her regimen, and not just for her, but for Walker as well. Norman Osborn was right about one thing – it wasn't a nice world. 

Ironically, it was Norman Osborn who brought to mind the key philosophical question posed by _Wicked_ itself. As Glinda asks _Are people born wicked – or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?_

_What poisoned your soul, Norman? Your upbringing? Losing your wife? Did whatever gave you your “super powers” also drive you mad? Or were you always destined to be a selfish and evil human being regardless of circumstance? Why is Spider-Man so different? Why is he not like you?_

_And **who** was Gwen Stacy?_

Gwen was often on Idina’s mind considering her fate was the catalyst for that night's events. But who was she - _really_? Norman’s terse answer when she posed the question to him told her the reality of her significance was likely 180 degrees from what he disparagingly claimed. Idina researched her to the limits of publically available information, but nothing inferred Gwen had been anything other than a normal 20-year-old college student when she died. There was no suggestion of a secret life or super-powered identity. Much more information was available on her late father, a widely respected police captain, who ironically, also died in the presence of Spider-Man. 

_So much tragedy seems to follow that man. So much death, misery, and misfortune. But why? What he did for me, he's done for so many others over the years. But, is he cursed? Is he reaping a just reward for his own sins? I don't understand any of this. Is it only coincidence that he was there when two members of the same family died? Not to mention poor Harry Osborn._

What was Norman Osborn's connection to Gwen? For some reason, on one terrible day, while in his Green Goblin identity, he kidnapped her, and hurled her from the Brooklyn Bridge to her death. Controversy persisted over whether Spider-Man was careless in his rescue attempt and broke her neck by bringing her to a sudden stop when he snagged her with his webbing. However, the Goblin had clearly set that tragedy in motion. 

_What possessed Norman to do such a horrible thing? This wasn’t a business rival, or another super-powered person, but by all accounts, **just a college girl**. What could a 20-year-old college girl have possibly done to Norman Osborn?_ The realization she had been in close proximity several times to such a thoroughly depraved human being, and even introduced her son to him, gave Idina chills, and would for some time to come. 

The questions continued haunting her as she stood over Gwen’s grave one day while placing a bouquet of flowers at the headstone. For some inexplicable reason, this young girl found her way into the intersecting orbits of all three men - Spider-Man, Osborn, and the Jackal. Why? Were all three on an inevitable collision course with Gwen at the intersection only by chance? Or was Gwen herself the reason their paths crossed? Was she even aware of the central role she was playing in that horrific drama– or had she been a clueless, innocent victim the whole time, never knowing, even in her final moments, why she was going to die? 

_Too many unanswered questions. And I **have** to know the answers._

_I can’t let it go._

_Oh, that's just fucking great...Now I'm doing it to myself._

  


_Why am I here?_

_Beyond the usual philosophical questions about the nature of existence, of course._

Peter Parker stood within the throng outside the Richard Rodgers Theatre's stage door on 46th Street. He was already in the area, and wandered over on a peverse whim, arriving as the show let out. A crowd had gathered behind the barricades, which were on the right and left of the door, with an open spot in the middle where a black SUV sat idling at the curb. _That must be her getaway car._ He was three rows of people deep, taking in the controlled chaos as other cast members came out to cheers, whistles, and compliments, signing Playbills and other trinkets, and posing for pictures. A star struck pair of teenage girls next to him gushed repeatedly about their love for Idina, how beautiful she was, how great she sang, etc. etc. _Yeah, but have you spent any time with her? You sure couldn’t take her home to your parents. She’d turn everyone’s ears blue._

There were elbows and nudging and toes stepped on, but he was surprised at the crowd’s overall civility. He'd heard stories of people climbing light poles to get a glimpse of her ( _I hate when people rip off **my** schtick_ ), and of hustlers muscling aside kids trying to get her to sign _Frozen_ merchandise to peddle on eBay. Fortunately, those elements appeared absent tonight. Another group gathered on the other side of 46th, not in search of autographs, but still hoping for a glimpse of her as she came out the door. One of the security guards earlier informed the crowd behind the barricades that while Idina was willing to sign and have pictures taken _of her,_ she would not stop and pose for any. A reasonable request, Peter surmised, otherwise she’d be there all night every night. 

An hour after Peter arrived, Idina walked out, Sharpie in her left hand, to the right of the stage door to begin signing. For a moment, the crowd went from noisy to Roman Coliseum gladiator-fight-night crazy before settling down to a dull roar. 

_What must it be like, to be so popular you need security to keep people from loving you **too** much? Certainly not a problem I'm likely to have. But then again, the last time Spider-Man was popular it went to my head, Uncle Ben died and my life's course was set._

Since much of the crowd in front of him was several years younger, he could see over them as Idina made her way through the people leaning against the barricades as Playbills were passed back and forth from the back rows to the front, then back to their person of origin. The well-known diva looked casual and unassuming in an oversized t-shirt, jeans, her dark hair knotted up in a ball at the top of her head and a spartan amount of make-up. She appeared tired and didn’t smile much, making little eye contact as she furiously scribbled her initials as often as she could in the limited time she had allotted. 

_Oh, what the hell did I think I was going to accomplish by being here? Like anyone would give a shit about Peter Parker. I'm just another blur in this sea of humanity she'd sign for and immediately forget. Besides, she’s met Peter Parker, and I doubt he made a good impression that night at Osborn’s club. She’s a gorgeous, international celebrity who has rich men like Norman Osborn lining up to buy time with her. I’m a loser who can’t even rustle up the cash for a ticket to see her sing. If I approached too quickly security would be on me in a second. That’s how significant and impressive Peter Parker is._

_She’s 10 years older than I am anyway. Kristin Chenoweth is spunkier and has a cuter laugh. I think she’s even supposed to come back to New York next year for a show. Maybe Doc Ock will kidnap her. Or better yet - date her._

  


Idina could sign Playbills in her sleep, and tonight was one of those times she felt she was doing just that. She had long ago perfected the art of turning a three-second Sharpie swirl into a vaguely identifiable "IM" in order to get through the largest number of people in the shortest amount of time. But, she was grateful she could do it again, grateful she no longer needed the cane or any other assistance to walk. She had very mixed feelings about doing stage door and wondered how long it could continue. She really did want to say “thank you” to her fans. She remembered being a young girl and wanting to make a connection with _her_ idols, looking at them straight in the eye, getting a smile, a verbal acknowledgement, maybe even making a little bit of small talk, just to feel – _validated_ \- in a sense. She also knew show tickets weren't cheap. But it was _impossible_ to do it justice, impossible to even give everyone a simple autograph. And with her fame soaring after _Frozen_ , the number of unbalanced fans, as well as hustlers trying to obtain her signature on an object to sell online, increased, making her increasingly uneasy mingling among crowds. Recently surviving a kidnapping ordeal didn't help. 

Then she heard it. 

“Hang on, Elphie! It gets bumpy from here!” 

It took a moment to sink in to because mentally she was on autopilot. Then for the first time that evening, she looked up and around. 

“Who said that?” she yelled. _”Who said that?”_ she asked a second time, louder and more forcefully. Each time she was met by the murmur of “said what?” rippling through the crowd. 

_It came from the left and down the street away from the crowd_. To the security detail's horror, she darted through the narrow opening leading to her ride, turned left and ran north on 46th Street past the Imperial Theater, where _Les Miserables_ was playing. Pushing through that stage door crowd set off numerous gasps, shrieks and more than one "was that Idina Menzel?" As if she were the Pied Piper, a small section of the crowd broke off and started chasing her, as well as security and Anthony Rapp, who had also been signing at that moment. 

She compared each man she passed to the body size and shape she remembered from that night, but most were invariably too short, too tall, too heavy, too hairy in the face, and Spidey was definitely a white guy where his costume was torn. Without sporting her on-stage make-up and clothing, separated from the crowd, she looked like a crazy woman accosting passers-by for change. Cars honked when she occasionally stepped into the street and ran against traffic. 

She reached Eighth Avenue before Anthony caught up with her, stopping at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 46th Street near the open air Theatre District Shopping Court. She looked around in a circle, but there was no sign of him. Of course, he could be standing next to her and she wouldn’t know it. Anthony was the first to reach her as security focused on getting ahead of the crowd to keep people from catching up with and possibly trampling her. 

“Dee, what the hell?” Anthony yelled, grabbing her shoulder. He turned her around to face him, grasping her forearms to hold her fast. He felt that bizarre mixture of relief and fury a parent does at times, ecstatic their child is safe but also furious they worried them so much in the first place. “Are you out of your fucking mind? More than usual? Do want to start a riot or something? Not to mention I just got my knee fixed and you’re going to make me blow it out again!” 

Idina looked almost frantic, her eyes tearing. 

“ _He_ was here, Anthony!” 

“Who was here?” 

“ _Spider-Man!_ ” 

“You’re kidding. Where?” Anthony looked around, more at the tops of the buildings than street level. “I didn’t see him.” 

“No – his voice! I heard his voice. He had to have been out of his costume but he was in the crowd! He said something to me he also said that night at the Gershwin. It could only have come from him!” 

“How the hell could you have heard him in that crowd?” 

“Because I’ll never forget his voice. It was the voice I heard when he carried me from Central Park to the hospital. When I thought I was going to die, it was the voice that told me I had to hang on, that my son needed me, that the world was a better place with me in it –and – the voice that said if I died there'd be no telling what Kristin Chenoweth would say about me.” She dropped her head and wiped away tears. “I just wanted to say ‘thank you.’ I wanted to look right at him, give him a hug, maybe even… ” she stopped herself before she said too much. “No…that would be really, really, fucking stupid.” 

She had her lifetime fill of mysterious men, men in costumes, men with secrets. Besides, Spider-Man was a HERO, a man who risked his life for her asking nothing in return, as he had done for countless others over the years. He was probably on his way back to his Spider-Cave to study the city’s trouble spots on a map determining what wrongs to right next. A foul-mouthed Jewish ex-wedding singer from Long Island who loved parading around in pretty clothes, surrounded by adoring crowds and coveted by handsome men was probably beneath him. She was indeed the Ditzy Diva. 

Anthony put his arm around her shoulders and walked her back to the stage door, past the barricades. She was done for the night, and the crowd knew it. Almost as one, it went eerily silent, and let her and Anthony pass back into the theater. 

“Dee,” he said softly, “maybe this is like – “ 

“Anthony?” she interrupted. 

“Yes?” 

“If you run a _Wicked_ line I am so going to kick your ass.” 

  


**To be Concluded in Chapter 10 - “Because I Knew You.” Idina needs closure, and only one person can give it to her. The final chapter.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This_ was the original planned ending to the story, based on my own stage door experience after seeing the Spider-Man musical. I thought it made an appropriate, melancholy ending – but as I’ll discuss in the notes to the next chapter – the direction the story took seemed to require one last bit…


	10. Because I Knew You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina finally has her answers. But - will they really give her peace?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As originally planned, the story concluded with Chapter 9, an ending inspired by my own stage door experience after seeing the Spider-Man musical. The actor who played Spidey that night (Jake Epstein) graciously came out to sign in below freezing weather for the small crowd. After signing everything put to him, he retrieved his belongings from inside the theater, came back out, knit cap on his head, backpack slung over his shoulder, and literally vanished into the anonymity of the night with no one beyond the group outside the stage door knowing who he was. As he walked away, someone said softly "There goes Spider-Man." I thought that made an entirely apropos ending to the story and to the irony that is Peter Parker/Spider-Man’s life.
> 
> However, as the story continued to develop, it became apparent it couldn’t end there. For one, I had turned Idina into a ferocious researcher, and it wouldn't have been true to the "character," to have her ponder "Who was Gwen Stacy?" and then shrug her shoulders and give up because the answer wasn't immediately forthcoming. Additionally, a real person, particularly as one as emotional as Idina appears to be (again, I admit that I do not know the woman) could not likely endure an event as described in Chapters 7 & 8, coming within moments more than once of having her life and entire world stripped from her without a considerable residual impact. She could not just walk away without reaching some kind of closure, without getting an explanation or rationale as to what had set such a horrible event in motion. And that is why there is a Chapter 10, which illustrates my belief that characters drive the plot, not vice versa. 
> 
> I made a point earlier of stating this is comic book Spider-Man, not movie Spider-Man, and like I've said, my Spider-Man is an older, more jaded character who does not look boyish, as did Tobey Maguire and Andrew Garfield, or heaven help us, Tom Holland. _That_ would be too creepy.

  


The dark haired woman stepped from the car, surveying the surrounding neighborhood. _Not the most upscale area is it?_ She had hoped for better. _He_ certainly deserved better. However, given what she knew of the unfairness and capriciousness of life and fate, it was not surprising.

“Don’t leave until I waive you off,” she told the driver. “And if I do, hang out at a coffee shop or find something else to do until I contact you again to pick me up. I don’t think it will take the rest of the morning." She slammed the door and walked up the stairs to the apartment building’s entrance. The book she nervously carried under her left arm held the final piece of the puzzle she had been trying to put together to make sense of recent events. Although that puzzle’s solution originally stunned her, after some reflection she realized it was the only logical one – and was staring at her the entire time. 

At the top of the stairs she reviewed the names on the door panel and buzzed the correct unit. She took great pains to avoid being recognized. Her hair was up, hidden under a large hat, she wore large sunglasses, no make-up, and bargain store clothes, her attempt at anonymity designed more to protect the secrets of the man she was visiting than herself. With no response after one polite buzz (she really didn’t expect an immediate response), she began the “I know you’re in there and I’m not going anywhere until you show up at the door,” repetitive buzzing. 

“Keep your pants on! I’m coming, I’m coming!” exclaimed the groggy and highly irritated speaker on the other side of the door. She knew she had taken a chance arriving unannounced, but gambled he would be home, at least in the morning. After all, the news indicated he had been quite busy throughout the night and was no doubt trying to catch up on richly deserved sleep. She felt guilty bothering him, but it was the only way to put certain demons to rest. 

She waived off her driver as the door opened, and the same man who confronted Norman Osborn at the club during their initial dinner peeked his head through, hair in disarray, eyes half shut, adjusting to the sunlight. 

“Look, I had a really long night last night and if you’re not from Publishers Clearing House to present me with a big, fat check you can just kiss my – _whoa…_ ” His tone changed upon recognizing the woman in front of him as she removed her sunglasses. 

“Peter Parker,” she said with a large smile and certain finality, as in “after all this time we finally meet” type of greeting, although they had met before, but not under these circumstances, and not knowing then what she did now. 

“Uh. Hi. You’re--her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Audra McDonald?” 

“Prick.” _A smart-ass in AND out of costume._

“Well, if I had any doubts, that mouth removed them. Took me a minute because you’re not all…” He made a circular motion over his face to illustrate her lack of make-up, “and I didn’t recognize you under all of those freckles.” 

“I’m not wearing my “mask.” I thought it was only fair since you wouldn’t be wearing yours.” 

Peter’s eyes opened wide for the first time, and he dropped his head, eking out a whispered “ _shit_.” 

“May I come in?” 

“Sure,” Peter said with resignation, opening the door fully and ushering Idina inside the building and up a flight of stairs to his apartment. He wore a plain white t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and was barefoot – having literally just rolled out of bed. He lead her into a modest, spartanly decorated, disheveled studio apartment with a lot of "deferred maintenance." If she hadn’t known how old he really was, she would have guessed this was the residence of a typical male college student 15 years younger. 

“I’d offer you some coffee, but I, uh, don’t have any. Or tea. Or soft drinks. Or even milk or orange juice, for that matter. Man, I really need to go grocery shopping.” 

“I’m fine, Peter. It’s not necessary.” 

“You know, you could have called first and given me a chance to shower, shave and put on some decent clothes. This isn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make meeting a Broadway star.” 

“I’m sorry, but what can I say? I make a living out of dramatic entrances. Besides, it’s really the _third_ time we’ve met. The first was at Norman’s club, and the second was in the Gershwin. And you already made an unforgettable _first_ impression. You were _such an asshole_ that night on the patio.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

“I thought if I called first you'd say “no” or strain yourself making up a crazy-ass secret identity saving story no one with a brain would actually believe except in comic books. Since I’m not Lois Lane, I just thought we’d skip that step.” 

“Fine,” Peter said, grudgingly accepting he had to live with her knowing the truth, since he had no telepathic or super kissing powers that could make her forget. 

“Nothing like I would have imagined,” Idina said as she continued to look around. Peter sighed deeply and shook his head as once again he was reminded how his pathetic reality was 180 degrees from others' expectations. 

“All the girls say that when they see my place. I’ve been down this road before. OK - I _don’t_ have a high tech Spider-Cave or Fortress of Spidertude. I _did_ have a Spider-Mobile once and THAT was a complete fiasco, so after that I said “no more spider-accessories.”” 

Idina turned to face him. “I’m _not_ disappointed, Peter. To be honest, I’m relieved.” 

He responded with a quizzical look. 

“Yes. Really. Because it tells me Spider-Man is a human being. I had to see for myself, because when you and Norman were taking turns trying to kill each other at the Gershwin, I had my doubts about both of you. It was like watching two monsters in a horror-movie death struggle. I'm even willing to bet Spider-Man is actually a pretty nice human being once you get past his smart ass attitude and his stupid, corny, and defensive jokes. Let’s just say my last experience with a wealthy, polished, charming costumed character sucked. And no, I didn’t mean it like it sounded.” 

“It’s not like I didn’t think you were capable of putting it together,” Peter said. "I overplayed things by confronting you and Norman that night at his club. I should have worn my costume, but Norman and I always coordinate. When he wears his costume, I wear mine. When he’s in a suit I always wear some kind of jacket….that kind of stuff. And I think he and the Jackal name-checked me more than once. I’d just hoped in all of the chaos, confusion and then you getting back to your life you’d either forget or just wouldn’t care.” 

Idina walked to a small end table where a modest collection of framed photos sat. One was of a pretty, smiling red haired woman, another a kind-looking elderly woman, and a larger one of the same elderly woman, with a similarly aged man, and a scrawny, bespectacled little boy – probably no more than 10 years old. She smiled, thinking that boy looked straight out of Dweeb Central. And that dweeby little boy was very likely still within the hero the world knew. 

Peter noted her focus on that particular picture. “My parents died when I was a toddler. My father’s brother and his wife, my Uncle Ben and Aunt May took me in…raised me as their own.” 

_Upbringing?_ Idina pondered. “So it’s more than coincidence Spider-Man went from entertainer to crime fighter not long after your uncle’s murder?” 

“Yeah,” Peter replied in a barely audible voice, lowering his head. Clearly, there was more to the story, but nothing he felt like sharing. _And he’s obviously not happy with what I already know._

“Congratulations on your detective skills,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm as he grew increasingly uncomfortable with Idina’s curiosity about him, worrying about what else she might know. 

“Please don’t be defensive with me, Peter. If it’s any consolation, I really wasn’t trying to learn _your_ secrets. I had no interest in knowing who Spider-Man was. I was actually trying to learn Gwen Stacy’s secrets.” 

She saw Peter’s face sadden even more. The wounds were still raw, still open, even after all of these years. She regretted putting him through this, and she knew it probably wouldn’t go over well with him, but for her own sanity's sake, she had to do this. If not, she would have many more sleepless nights. 

“I originally wondered if she and I had something in common,” she continued. “Something that drew Osborn to each of us. In a strange way, I felt I owed it to _her_ , as much as to myself, to find out why we were sucked into this drama, because I suspect she never knew. Did she?” 

“She didn’t,” Peter responded. “At least…I don’t think so. I don’t know what Norman might have said to her….at the end.” 

“I tried reading up on her, but there was so little on the internet or other public information that was helpful. There was a lot more about her death than her life. But I have a friend whose son attends ESU and I asked her to have him find me some college yearbooks from around the time she died. I came across this picture taken in one of the coffee shops on campus.” 

Idina pulled out the book she had been carrying and held it out to Peter, opened to the page she wanted him to see. The heartbreak on his face was so profound as he took hold of the book she instantly regretted showing it to him. He backed up slowly and dropped, rather than sat, on his couch, taking a deeper and more sorrowful look at the photo.

It was a moment frozen in time from that freshman year. They were all more than 15 years younger, but there was no mistaking Flash Thompson, Mary Jane Watson, Harry Osborn, Gwen Stacy – and Peter Parker. Harry Osborn was embracing the same pretty red haired girl whose picture was on Peter's end table, obviously the girl Norman accused Peter of "stealing" from Harry. Peter's arms were around Gwen, the radiance on their faces telling the world they were deeply in love with each other. _All smiles._ Peter thought. _Before Flash went into the service and came back without his legs. Before Gwen died. Before Harry went mad. Before Mary Jane couldn’t take the drama anymore and left. Back when we all thought the world was at our mercy, and not the other way around._

“When I saw that picture,” Idina continued, “and remembered it was _you_ on the patio that night confronting Norman, I recalled a certain superhero who exhibited the same obnoxious, cocky attitude you did. If I heard you referred to by name that night, I don’t remember it. I was pretty messed up that whole time. But it wouldn’t have been name-checking by Norman or the Jackal giving you away as much as your mentioning Gwen and Harry that night. When Spider-Man attacked Norman, he said their names in a tone only someone who had personally known them, loved them and genuinely grieved their loss would have used. Then, this picture brought the pieces of the puzzle together – at least some of them. It told me Gwen wasn't the driver of these events, but _you_. It was always about _you,_ Norman Osborn and your blood feud. Gwen Stacy was collateral damage. Maybe even Harry, too. But I don’t know where Professor Miles Warren fits in all of this.” 

“Gwen and I were students of his. He became obsessed with Gwen for reasons I never fully understood. Some of it was obviously sexual – but I never thought that was the entire story. Her death completely unhinged him, and he found out she and Norman actually once….and had twins. As a result he’s wedged himself into my and Norman’s little dance.” 

“I’ve run across more than a few of the obsessive types myself over the years. That explains the comments the Jackal made about the bastard children and their mother.” 

Peter handed the book back to Idina, looking like he had seen a ghost – two of them in fact. “That seems like a lifetime ago,” he said in a low voice. “We were so young – and so naive and foolish. We had _**no**_ idea what life held in store.” 

Idina sat down next to Peter on the couch, which was Early American Salvation Army, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “No one does at that age, Peter. College is like a halfway house between childhood and adulthood. Emotionally, you passed through that phase quicker than most, I think, and you’ve paid a terrible price.” 

While Peter didn’t feel comfortable discussing the subject, he believed he owed it to Idina, with all she had endured, with all she nearly lost, for what she did for him that night, to give her some of the answers. 

“I really loved Gwen. I thought _she_ was the woman I was destined to marry. But, I never told her the truth about myself, which was beyond stupid. I was delusional enough to believe I could, that I _should_ keep it from her even if we got married. Which tells me now I wasn't ready for marriage. I loved Harry, too. He was the best friend I ever had save for Uncle Ben. Norman never believed that. Norman always thought I was using Harry to get back at him. He never faced the fact that Harry being so screwed up was largely because he had been an abusive and inattentive father who dismissed and belittled any effort Harry made to connect with him. And honestly, I came up short in the best friend department. On days he really needed to talk to a friend… when I could have provided the balance to his father’s psycho worldview…I was never there. I was always playing superhero. 

“Years ago, when Norman first became the Goblin, I interfered in his attempts to take control of New York's criminal underworld. You know - basic superhero/supervillain stuff. Naturally, he got sick of it and decided he was going to find out who Spider-Man was, probably to hold it over my head like any good archenemy would. But when he found out Spider-Man was _**me**_ – someone he knew, and I was right there in his midst, living in an apartment he paid for, with his own son – something exploded in his head. What was a “business” rivalry became personal in the most terrible way possible, eventually costing Gwen her life. I have never forgiven myself. Gwen died because of me.” 

“No,” Idina stated. “Gwen Stacy died because Norman Osborn is a sick and evil man. Someone had to try to stop him. You were the one that took him on. What he did to you he would have done to _anyone_ who got in his way. He might have even broken them – but he could never break you. He still can’t, and he never will. You’re so much stronger and better than he is, and _he knows it_. Both of you have demons that torment you, tragedies you've endured – but _you_ didn’t let yours stop you from being a hero. His demons destroyed him, made him a monster. And I think that's part of why he hates you like he does.” 

“So – does that give you the closure you want? Because women always have to have closure.” 

She ignored Peter’s sarcasm, knowing how painful this was for him, since _she_ had initiated this trip to the past. 

“It gives me some. But there’s another reason I came. Even though I’m Jewish, I know a few stories from the New Testament – including the Healing of the Ten Lepers.” 

Peter nodded in recognition of the story, as he had been no stranger to Sunday School as a boy. “And the one who came back to say ‘thank you.’” 

“Yes. Peter, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I owe you my life. Every moment I have from now on with my son, on stage, with my family and friends….that’s all a gift from you. Yes, I am grateful to Norman for his part, but you came with absolutely no stake in my well-being. You came at the request of a man who took …all for a person you didn’t know.” 

“You sorta saved my ass, too. You took a hell of a couple of chances by interrupting Norman's pounding of me, and then telling him you weren't leaving the theater without me.” 

“Yeah, I know,” she said softly, still not comfortable with how close she came to dying that night. She knew without a doubt every decision, running back to the auditorium rather than waiting for rescue, and defying Norman over Spider-Man’s life, was the right one. That still didn’t make dealing with the consequences easy. “My body still aches, and I honestly think where I was shot I can feel the temperature change. I’m more neurotic than usual, if that can be believed. The physical therapy is over, but I’m going to be in other therapy for a very long time. It frightens me that Norman is out there doing what he damn well pleases and it doesn’t seem like anyone other than you is doing anything about it. I still have so many nightmares. Sometimes the Jackal kills me and I see the reactions of those I leave behind. Sometimes Norman comes for me and…” she grabbed a handkerchief from her purse, blew her nose, and wiped away the moisture from her eyes. 

“I’m so sorry.” Peter said. 

“But hey,” she smiled, desperately trying to put a positive spin on the subject. “You don’t how much cred that gives me with Walker and his buddies to learn I helped out Spider-Man. They mind _me_ a lot more than they mind their teachers or their own parents. No one messes with the mom they think fought the Green Goblin. But none of that would have happened if you hadn’t been there, Peter. I know you came to the Gershwin that night for me…not for Norman Osborn. I know what he’s done…what he’s taken from you. I _**know**_. I can’t imagine how that must feel.” 

“Idina, there’s no one I hate more in this, or any other universe, than Norman Osborn. But, you should know, for whatever good it does anyone…I believe he genuinely loved you. You have no idea of the efforts he made to protect you from…that other part of himself. Except for Harry, and that sure as hell wasn’t often, I can’t think of anyone else whom I saw Norman show any true compassion. Deep down, he might even have thought you could rescue his soul. But, he’s an irredeemable sociopath, Idina. If there was ever a decent man inside all of that hate and evil, he’s long gone, no matter how good of an actor he is.” 

“I know that now. I just don’t know what I was thinking at the time.” She looked away and decided to be honest with both Peter – and herself. "I do what I was thinking. I suppose I was more vulnerable than usual due to recent events in my life, which is saying a lot considering my stream of therapy bills over the years. After revisiting all of the things he said, the emphasis he placed on certain words, it’s obvious what he was. He was telegraphing what he was, like he was daring me and anyone else to put the pieces together. But he seemed to have so much of what I thought I wanted at this point in my life – he was strong, confident, charismatic, protective, and I really did think he thought the world of me, and that he would give me the security I was desperate for on so many levels. And it wasn’t his money, regardless of what some of my friends and critics think. I thought he might not just love me, but _adore_ me and _need_ me as well. And no matter how loud or crazy I got, or how hard I'd push, he wasn't threatened by me. He even seemed to love me for it. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t expect any man to understand. Men can’t grasp why a woman wants to be strong and independent and respected for so much more than her looks and treated as an equal, but still be loved and nurtured and cuddled and brought flowers, and treated like the most important thing to ever walk the earth.” 

“No, I don’t completely. But – I do know someone else who feels much the same way.” 

“Who knows? Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was obsession. Maybe he wasn’t seeing me as much as he was seeing someone else _in_ me. I couldn’t reconcile the man I met with the man people whispered about…..not until that night at the Gershwin. Whatever demons he’s living with – they’re too strong – they’re in control of him – and there’s no room for anyone else." 

After that, there was an uncomfortable silence for several seconds. 

“Peter, I don’t know where we go from here. But, I would really like for us to be friends.” 

“Two _good_ friends?” 

“I hate when people run _Wicked_ lines at me.” 

“And that’s why I did it,” he said smartly and unapologetically. 

“You are such a _dick_ ,” she said, smiling. She quickly placed a call to her driver to retrieve her. As the two rose from the couch, she said, “Peter, if you ever need anything, anything at all…” 

“You know, I’d score a lot of points with my Aunt May if she could meet you.” 

Idina wrote her cell phone number on a card and handed it to Peter. “Let me know when and I’ll arrange for some tickets for you and your Aunt to see the show and come backstage. Dinner afterwards on me if you do the Sunday matinee. I would very much like to meet your Aunt May. While your Uncle’s death may have created Spider-Man, I have a feeling she’s a big reason he’s the man he is.” 

“She is.” 

“Does she know?” 

“No. Orchestra seating?” 

“Don’t get greedy. You have to come to my rescue at least twice before you get better than the mezzanine.” 

“I see.” 

“You know, Walker would _love_ to meet Spider-Man. And I wouldn’t suggest it if I honestly didn’t believe it would be good medicine for old Spidey himself. Sometimes, you have to get outside yourself, and see the impact you have on others to realize it isn’t all for nothing, that you’ve done something worthwhile to earn your keep on this planet. It’s a lesson I know I have to keep learning. I can’t imagine it’s any different for superheroes.” 

“Only if it gets me _premium_ seating.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Spidey owes me a favor or two. I do his laundry, after all. I think I can persuade him to make an appearance at an appropriate time. He’ll bring his maracas.” 

A car horn sounded outside. 

“Good luck, Peter Parker. And thank you.” 

“Good luck to you too, Elphie. And you’re welcome.” 

Idina gave Peter a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug, the latter he returned. She turned and briskly walked out of the apartment to the waiting car, not looking back. She couldn’t let Peter see her tears. It was killing her to walk out on him so abruptly like this….but it just wouldn’t have been right to stay any longer. 

Peter looked out the window as her car pulled away and sighed deeply, bowing his head. _Typical. Just fucking typical. Goddamn you, Osborn. You’re right, and I hate when you’re right. Of all people, with the exception of Mary Jane, why are **you** the one who knows me best?_

He turned on the TV to distract him from answering his own question. 

  


Idina returned home and dropped onto the couch. She had cleared her schedule for today, knowing she would be emotionally spent after confronting Peter. Walker was with his father in California, which left the apartment hauntingly empty. She turned on the TV to create background noise so she wouldn’t feel so alone and there was a breaking bulletin about a group of supervillains tearing up Times Square. Then, she heard loud sirens outside and rushed to look out the window, observing a line of police cars and fire trucks racing to their destination. And - following behind them - swinging from building to building - was a man in silly blue and red pajamas she just happened to know. 

_Because I knew you…I have been changed for good._

And this time she didn’t mind the line being in her head. 

  
**FINIS**

  
Well - until [_**That Face in the Mirror**_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2749724/chapters/6164162), currently available and complete!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this project, I had NO IDEA it would be this long and involved. It wasn't supposed to be. I was under no delusion fanfic readers demanded a near novel length story about Idina Menzel dating a comic book supervillain. I mean - really? It was just going to be an amusing little fanfic to get off my chest so "it" would stop rattling around in my head and leave me alone! Because, sometimes writing really is cheap therapy. 
> 
> And that's the story. For those few who read any part of it, particularly those poor folks who might have hung in from beginning to end, I am grateful. I hope you enjoyed it even though it clearly was a lot less - "exciting" in certain ways than a lot of fanfic. It was admittedly a strange crossover concept as I doubt a lot of Idina Menzel fans care for superheroes and comic books and a lot of fans of the latter only think of her as that “Let it Go” singer they’ve heard enough of to last a lifetime. But, like I said earlier, when this idea forced its way into my head it would not give me rest until it was complete. 
> 
> Which explains how [_**That Face in the Mirror**_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2749724/chapters/6164162) came to be. You think I'd learn.


End file.
